


End of the Story

by kres



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark-ish, First Time, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 53,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kres/pseuds/kres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. The return, the fallout, the pieces you pick up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> BritPick by the delightful tryfanstone. Beta by the Anonymous Beta of Awesomeness.
> 
> Also on Livejournal here: [End of the Story ](http://kres.livejournal.com/296661.html)

This is the end. Eighteen months across four continents and this is how it ends, in an old tire factory south of London, a cavernous place with high ceilings, exposed pipes, concrete floors and fluorescent lighting. In the dark, there are sounds of footsteps, voices and gunshots. Doors slam. A distant explosion rattles the walls. The post behind Sherlock's back shudders; dust rains over his upturned face. Sherlock closes his eyes.

Time. He needs more _time_.

There is a blockage in the south wing of the palace inside his brain, and the data has backed up, the reflux of already catalogued thoughts flooding his senses.

Scene: table, lighted to perfection from end to end. Circuit boards, tools, a micro soldering iron. A 3D printer, a Leica microscope (top of the line), rubber containers (lead azide), plastic cups, metal and wires. Blueprints. Rifle parts.

She raised her head from the ocular. Her smile bloomed wide. Pride in her work overshadowed everything else, even her people, scattered, driven to ground.

"What do you think, Mister Sherlock Holmes?"

He inclined his head. Like to like. He walked slowly round the table. She sat back and let him admire.

She'd almost got him in Prague. The first bullet had gone through his side; the second had grazed his temple. Blood had blinded him; he'd stumbled, fallen, and lost her in the morning mist.

And there, at the table, there she was, in her impossible, translucent beauty. White hair, blue eyes, unblemished skin. Was she born like this? Or did she bleach everything about herself, to take on any colour she liked, melt into her surroundings.

She'd been brown-haired, in Prague. White overcoat, Louis Vuitton sunglasses, like a proper secret agent.

Here, at the table, he stopped; picked up one hollow-point bullet, turned it over. Perfect cast. Such talent. Such incredible hands.

Her fingers were resting on the table top, halfway between the soon-to-be arsenal on the surface, and an undoubtedly-right- _now_ arsenal somewhere on her person. Motionless, she was looking at him from underneath her razor-cut fringe - no, not looking. Observing. He should have known by now, he'd had a year and a half to learn the difference.

A lazy smile drifted onto her lips. Time for killing, soon. 

Soon, Mister Sherlock Holmes.

A hot droplet lands on his cheek. Rain? Impossible - they're inside - unless Mycroft's men blew a hole in the roof. But no, it's just a pressure valve above him, leaking; something overheating somewhere nearby. Sherlock shifts out of the way, the body heavy in his lap. He leans back against the post again.

In the end, she turned out to be much more proficient from a distance than in close-quartered combat. Divested of all her projectile weaponry, she matched him speed for strength: a quick jab at his throat, a debilitating kick to the kidneys, a steel-tipped boot to the ribs - but he'd known that one was coming, and then he had her, her leg twisted, her shoulder hitting the ground. He switched his grip, got to his feet and lifted her by the throat, one-handed, slammed her into a pillar, her knife hand trapped between their bodies, her wrist thin between his fingers.

He felt the tip of the knife slice through the skin of his upper thigh, angling for his femoral.

Her mouth was set, her eyes on him, her animal determination matching his animal instinct to survive. Don't do this, he thought, as they breathed onto one another, as the ways out closed off, and the only thing that remained was for him to twist their hands, and press up, and up, and up, through the layers of Gore-Tex and cotton and skin and flesh, under her ribs and into her heart.

He held the knife there, twisted (Mercy? Sentimental, Sherlock, in your old age?), and they went down together. 

It was merely evidence of his own shattered sanity in how much his brain likened this to an act of love.

He moved to lean against the pillar, after, and dragged her with him, her head in his lap, that apparition of white and red and dirt. His breathing was slowing down, the chemistry in his body ebbing, the adrenaline petering out. A tremor began working its way out of his core and outwards through his limbs. On a background thread, his brain sought the reason for his reluctance in letting her go, came up empty, and his train of thought shuddered and ground to a stop.

He needed more _time_.

He knocks his head back against the post. The pain blooms sharp, but it doesn't help dislodge the mental obstruction.

Please, I need more _time_.

"Sherlock."

Mycroft's voice is gentle. Sherlock didn't hear the footsteps, and so he doesn't react. It's too soon.

His hands are trembling. He can't stop them.

"It's time to go, Sherlock," Mycroft says. "The London's finest will be here in about nine minutes, so I do hope you can walk on your own." 

There is a pause, and Sherlock can feel Mycroft's eyes on him, assessing, calculating. "Unless you want this evening to end very differently."

Sherlock smiles (bares his teeth), eyes closed. _It's ended, Mycroft. Don't you understand?_

_It's done._

There's a brief, irritated silence. "Yes, Sherlock," Mycroft says, "you are done. Now stand up and strip. Would you like some assistance?"

He doesn't need assistance. He opens his eyes to his brother's black coat, black (combat) umbrella, shiny shoes (oh-so-careful not to step into the expanding pool at his feet) and, as always, impeccable suit.

Ah, Sherlock has missed suits. He is looking forward to wearing one again.

He stands up (the head previously in his lap hits the concrete with a soft _thump_ ) and he steps to the side on unsteady legs. He shrugs off his jacket, toes off his shoes, stands in socked feet in the syrupy liquid (catches Mycroft averting his eyes; ah, the delicate sensibilities of his brother). The t-shirt goes off over his head, jeans and pants and socks go down, and he steps out, naked and shivering, onto a clean (cleaner) patch of concrete.

Shadows move behind him. There is a hiss, like a fire extinguisher going off.

They douse him in something cold and clingy, cover him head to toe, and for a moment he can't breathe. It's a shock to the skin, doubly so when pain flares up in several places on his body at once, searing and sharp like a living thing. He squeezes his eyes shut, coughs, breathes through his open mouth and endures.

Mycroft's quiet presence nearby is as pointed as if he's admonishing Sherlock out loud.

The water they rinse him with next is so cold it makes his jaw snap shut with a click - but it's also an unexpected balm as his injuries melt away into numbness. He keeps his eyes closed.

When they're done with the water, they put a thick microfiber blanket around his shoulders. He grasps the edges with shaking fingertips, pulls it tight around himself.

When he opens his eyes, Mycroft is already walking away. 

"Burn this," his brother says, not turning round.

The shadow people around them coalesce, get to work.

*

After Prague, he had to lie low for a while.

Mycroft chewed him out (via mobile), and Mycroft's people patched him up and let him loose again.

"You can't go off half-cocked and expect to catch the biggest fish in the pond," Mycroft had said. "Take it slow, little brother."

He remembers saying something in a huff, something contrary and stupid, like _I'll take it just as fast as I want_ , but Mycroft only sighed at the other end of the line and slipped into blackmail, effortlessly as always.

"You are not on a mission from God, Sherlock. Just a little errand with a blessing from her Majesty's Secret Service, and thanks to the generosity of the Commonwealth." He paused, for added drama. "Both of which will eventually run out."

So Sherlock lay low. Pursued information as thoroughly as ever, exhausting each new lead with singular focus. Slipped from one personality to the next, from one change of clothes waiting for him in a hotel to another, from a lazy afternoon chatting up villagers in an orchard in Lourdes to a cold night of staking out a woman who smiled a little too brightly when he slipped Jim Moriarty's name into a conversation.

And always, Mycroft his shadow, and Mycroft's shadows not far behind. Following his pointed finger, tagging and bagging documents, fingerprints, phones, guns and people.

He thought (not one time) that he could have pointed at anyone then, _anyone_ , and the tagging and bagging machine would sweep them up just as easy, dump them God only knew where, some cold dungeon somewhere under the endless layers of London, to be forgotten and lost.

All things considered, knowing what his brother did for a living was quite different than witnessing the truth of it through his own skin.

Convenient, though? Yes. Undeniably.

*

Mycroft is silent on the drive back to London, hands folded over his crossed knees, eyes averted politely (pointedly) towards the night scenery - which he doesn't see, because he's in his brain, tying loose ends, finishing the last threads, and already onto the next affair. Streetlights illuminate his face at intervals, make his eyes glow with reflected light.

In the opposite seat, Sherlock sits wrapped in the blanket, letting the water drip from his hair onto his shoulders. The shivering of his body has stopped - his hormone levels have returned to normal, and the car is warm inside, like a leather-clad nest. Sherlock's thoughts have organised themselves, the doors to the rooms locked, the corridors empty, ready for the next influx of data. 

It was stupid, he thinks, and monumentally so, to venture ahead of everyone else, just so he could attempt to strike a conversation. In the end, not much conversation was to be had. Nobody won.

He shifts slowly, unwinds the blanket from around his front, and begins to dry himself off.

Bending presents some difficulty. He drags the sides of the blanket down his legs, carefully folding his spine (compressing his ribcage), and dries his ankles and feet and between his toes. His lower back is thrumming low and steady (right kidney; that punch was quite good), and his ribs are beginning to ache as well (bruised; perhaps fractured, he'll have to get them checked). He straightens, pats self-consciously at his groin, and considers the stack of fresh (and completely black) clothes folded on the seat next to Mycroft.

On top of the stack, like an apology, sits a shiny new pair of oxfords from Yves Saint Lauren.

Sherlock folds the blanket, sets it aside, and dresses in silence - pants, socks, a soft cotton t-shirt, denims with a thick leather belt, a smooth leather jacket. A disguise, nothing more, and hopefully last in a very long series, but necessary for the first few days at home.

Nobody knows him like this. In this jacket, he'd be just another bloke, out for an evening stroll.

He lingers on the shoes, fingertips brushing the leather. It is partly for his brother's benefit (he deserves that much), and partly because it's a pleasurable, familiar sensation. He missed having this; he missed being _himself_. It will hit him sooner or later, what he had done today. The knowledge of it sits firmly at the back of his brain, unguarded thoughts swirling around it like so many snakes in a bowl of tar.

He grits his teeth and bends to slip on the shoes and tie the laces. When he's done, he stretches out on the seat, and Mycroft at last turns his head away from the window. 

"Hmm," is all he says.

Sherlock leans his head against the headrest and closes his eyes.

They drive for some time, stops and turns and winding curves (back roads, suburbs), and slowly he begins to drift off. The new clothes lie perfectly against his skin (the fabrics are high quality, the seams soft and flat). The moisture in his hair has warmed to the temperature of his scalp, and his head feels sheathed in a warm, wet cocoon (he needs proper shampoo). He realises with intensity how badly he wants to sleep, how he yearns for the touch of cool, clean bed sheets.

Soon, he thinks. Very soon.

After an indeterminate amount of time (he briefly revels in the knowledge that he does not have to think about the passage of time, just for a while), the car slows, stops at a red light. There is a soft shuffling of clothes - Mycroft is checking his watch.

A minute passes, and the car doesn't move. Not a red light, then. Sherlock blinks his eyes open, peers out of the window.

He blinks again.

Gateforth street. 

The clinic.

_Oh._

He turns to Mycroft, who is regarding him with a carefully pleasant smile on his face. They stare each other down for a little while.

Finally Sherlock grins, all teeth. "Oh, Mycroft," he drawls, "you shouldn't have."

Mycroft's smile morphs into a scowl with ease of long practice. "Yes," he says. "I know. And yet here we are."

They stare each other down. Eventually, Sherlock turns away, looks out into the street. 

The parking spots in front of the Lisson Grove Clinic are empty. The streetlights illuminate the white lines on the tarmac, a shiny metal railing. A man is leaning against the wall by the wheelchair entrance, smoking a cigarette. Sherlock feels the sympathetic response unfurl in his own lungs.

He kicked the habit not long before leaving the flat at Montague, only to indulge again shamelessly in Tokyo (how could he not; in restaurants where the only way to eat a bowl of ramen was jammed shoulder to shoulder with chain-smoking suit-wearing white-collar cubicle-dwellers). He has tried a variety of other stimulants since, jumping from one to another out of necessity, having found himself again and again (usually after a period of uninterrupted sleep of sufficient length) thoroughly divested of all the habit-forming substances he'd stacked nearby or on his person. Now, watching the man so casually take a drag and exhale a beautiful puff of smoke, Sherlock is again reminded that the basic needs of his body have not been met for several days.

"Go on," says Mycroft.

Sherlock bites his lip. It could be too late. What if John - no, Mycroft would _know_. Mycroft would not have brought him here if he hadn't known the exact whereabouts of one Doctor John Hamish Watson, night and day and all the intervals in between.

"Now he hesitates," says Mycroft, before Sherlock can decide to move. "Or did you actually have a plan, little brother? What was it, pray tell. Observe from a distance? Perhaps go out in one of your ridiculous disguises, draw him out? Or maybe just send him a text?"

The word sounds like a curse, and his brother is right - while the idea of stalking John in a disguise is a tempting one, even the mere suggestion of using technology as a proxy for this is atrocious. Information, facts can be easily relayed in hundred characters or less. This... _this_ is a much more messy business. 

Sherlock gathers the leather jacket around himself, zips it up.

"I don't need your help, Mycroft," he says. "And I don't need an incentive."

Mycroft laughs softly, not unkind. "Oh, I am aware." He examines his nails. "What you really need, my dear brother, is a tranquiliser, a dose of painkillers, a bed, preferably with straps, and half a dozen nurses to force-feed and hydrate you for at least a week. All of which I should provide, in the best interest of us both."

"It's only a few bruises."

"And he is, in fact, a medical doctor. I know. I double-checked."

The man outside the clinic drops the cigarette, crushes the butt with his shoe, and goes back inside. The door swings, and then the street is empty.

Sherlock's ribs are aching with every breath, a low, pulsing pain that echoes the other, duller one, in his lower back.

"You think he will take pity on me," he says.

Mycroft sighs, a long-suffering exhale, exaggerated by miles.

"And what else is there, dear brother."

*

Before Prague, there'd been two weeks of planning and damage control, during which Sherlock mostly argued and Mycroft mostly waited him out. Having come out of his stunt on the roof, as Mycroft called it (but with no small amount of respect, Sherlock noted, which Mycroft very pointedly did not admit), having come out largely unscathed and with his marbles largely in place, Sherlock saw no point in waiting. Moriarty's network would be unprepared, scattered, and vulnerable to a surprise attack.

But Mycroft, naturally, knew better.

Moriarty's network was not scattered. It had gone to ground, very deep and very, very swiftly. Mycroft hinted at multiple reports of a quite organised reorganisation. There had been no power struggle, no fights to take over turfs. A well-defined succession, then. Moriarty, having accomplished the crowning achievement of his life, had had the foresight to not let his legacy go to waste. And he did value his legacy highly - as he had valued Sherlock's, which was why he had worked so hard to destroy it, bit by valuable bit. 

Sherlock could not be bothered by anyone's legacy. Not after following John to the cemetery. Not after watching John _stand at attention_ on Sherlock's empty grave.

Two months, he told Mycroft. I'll give this two months.

Mycroft didn't argue. Merely waited him out. 

*

Sherlock pushes open the heavy glass door. Inside the clinic, light is dimmed in the hallways. Past opening hours, but not yet locked up. The man smoking at the door should have locked it. Hasn't. Someone is still inside. The smoker is nowhere in sight, but the door to the lavatory down the hall is swinging minutely on its hinges.

Sherlock walks down the hall. His feet are silent on the threadbare carpeting.

John's office is third down on the left (the single light coming through the fake mosaic glass over the door). Sherlock stops, and falters for the first time.

His hand won't come up to knock.

He breathes quietly through his nose for a little while. He's planned this. He's rehearsed this, _ad nauseam_ , and there is absolutely no logical reason to hesitate now.

Each breath is progressively more difficult than the one before, as the pain sprawls and settles uncomfortably within his ribs. It will do him no good, this, and if the pain gets worse, he won't be able to speak, won't be able to tell John--

He squeezes his eyes shut, blinks them open. He needs a clear head. His hands roll into fists, release, and don't tremble. Yes, this will do. He raises his hand and doesn't knock, he turns the knob instead, opens the door wide and steps inside, where John--

_John--_

\--is raising his head to look, framed against a dark window in a spot of white light from a lamp on his desk. 

Squinting eyes, creased forehead, open mouth, right hand on papers (last visit follow-up, all the others already done and in a pile to his left), left hand holding a pen, and there are smudges on the tips of his fingers, and on the outside of the left palm, blue from where the ink from the paper adhered to skin, from hours and hours of writing, and touching, prodding, testing; sanitiser, latex gloves and a penlight in the eye, cough, please, yes, deep breath, deep breath, yes--

"...Sherlock." 

John's voice lacks proper inflection. Not a question, and not a statement, so Sherlock cannot answer one way or the other. John's face is framed by the light, and within the space of a breath his expression turns completely blank - features relaxed, brow smooth, mouth closed, eyes calm. He has turned his chin slightly down, which means he's either hiding or preparing to charge. There's a very distinct lack of tremor in his left wrist.

And that's about the extent of data Sherlock is able to get.

This is not how this was supposed to go.

Sherlock closes the door and leans his back against it. His hands crawl defensively into his pockets.

Hello, John, he says, but his voice isn't working, and he falters for the second time.

This is not fair, he thinks, to be so besotted by one man - because Sherlock can identify this feeling, oh, he can identify it very _precisely_ \- to be so spellbound as to forget the so very well-rehearsed mantra of greeting-justification-forgiveness, to so completely forget himself in this moment that an _apology_ is what would squeeze to the foreground.

"John," he says, and his voice is, of all things, _breaking_. "I'm--"

"Sherlock," John says again, stronger now, moving, rising to stand behind his desk.

"Yes," says Sherlock, attempting to summon resolve where all he can feel is _joy_ , glorious, tremendous joy expanding within him like a sheet in the sun. "Yes, John, you already said that."

"No," says John, now walking round the desk. "No." It's irrational.

John walks across the room - no limp; there had been one; Mycroft said - John walks across the room with no limp, comes up very close to Sherlock, steps right into Sherlock's personal space.

Sherlock waits, breathing very slowly.

John reaches to Sherlock's left and flips on the overhead light.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. Images of John's face bloom in negative under his eyelids.

"Ow," he says, and then John's hand is on his chest, pressing, moving swiftly up to touch his shoulder, then his face, framing his jaw, running blind fingers over his forehead and down his nose and lashes and cheeks and lips. The touch is so sudden and so quick it's gone before Sherlock can react. He opens his eyes to John already stepping away, out of his space and back into his own.

"Huh," murmurs John, and bites his lip. His expression has not changed. Eyes crinkle at the edges, like he's in pain, but that's all.

Sherlock waits.

John takes a breath. "So." He clears his throat, waves his arm in Sherlock's general direction. "You're real, then."

His voice breaks, just a little. He raises his chin. Defensive? Not enough data to tell Sherlock what he is thinking, not yet.

"Obviously," says Sherlock. He keeps his hands in his pockets.

John bites his lip some more, then stops, like he is remembering something. He takes a breath, and his body loosens, arms fall to his sides. Sherlock can see the wave of forced relaxation roll slowly over his shoulders and back.

"I'm not sure," John says, voice stronger, level. "I should ask someone else. You know. To see if they share the delusion."

"Ask the janitor," says Sherlock. He swallows. "I wouldn't mind a cigarette while you're at it."

"I thought you didn't smoke."

"I quit. But I didn't." Sherlock frowns. "Does it mean that I didn't or did I never stop?"

"I don't know-- Sherlock-- Look. The janitor's gone home by now anyway."

"No he hasn't. He's still in the loo."

"Oh is that a fact?"

"Yes."

John stands there. Sherlock breathes and bathes in increasing waves of pain. John's stance is so carefully professional, so carefully perfect, but disguise is always a self-portrait, and Sherlock has seen through better than this.

He breathes very carefully, waits, and slowly, very slowly the shreds of it all come back to him - the reality reasserting itself, with him at its helm, the master of his own perception - and Sherlock regains the ability to see clearly through his best friend.

The stance is a careful mask, sketched after John's return from Afghanistan, filled in through rounds and rounds of therapy, and perfected while in Sherlock's absence (after his _death_ , after his _demise_ ), so that John would appear normal to everyone who _knows_ , to everyone who looks at him in that pitying, I'm-so-sorry-for-your-loss kind of way.

But Sherlock isn't any of those people, and he knows he needs only to wait, so he does. 

And sure enough, John's stance changes again, a shift of weight onto one leg, hands loose but ready to curl into fists. Slowly, he cocks his head to the side, as if taking Sherlock in from a different angle. 

"I should clock you one, right here," John says. His voice has changed again, too. It's deeper now, quieter, but still very steady. "God help me I should break your fucking jaw."

Yes, Sherlock thinks. He can only nod, so he does.

"I should do it," says John, like he's working up to it, convincing himself. His therapy stance is now gone completely, and his eyes are dark. "Give you a shiner from here till next Tuesday. Next year."

"Yes, John," Sherlock says. And he thinks, _Do it._

"I mean it," says John, and he advances a step.

"Yes," Sherlock says.

John advances more (slow; still no limp), with intent. Sherlock finds his body attempting to shrink away in anticipation of more pain (a rejection born of physical exhaustion, a completely ridiculous attempt to flee). He wills himself still. This here is one possible (26%) scenario, and Sherlock is prepared.

But instead of a fist, John's open hand travels again to his face, not light brushing this time, but clasping the side of his jaw and turning his head to one side. Then the other side, and this is a different touch, Sherlock realises, because it's not _touch_ \- John is _examining_ him. Sherlock squints sideways. The changes are miniscule, but fascinating: John's stance has softened, the hard angles in his face are gone, his body language going from closed off and quietly raging to open and careful. In a blink of an eye he has transformed from John Watson to Doctor Watson.

"You've been in a fight today," John says. He steps back, scans Sherlock from head to toe. "Injured ribs, could be fractured." He frowns, and something in Sherlock's chest tightens; John is not just examining, he is _deducing_.

"Right kidney," says John eventually, and Sherlock shivers. "The way you stand... You should sit. Here, sit there, take off your jacket."

John's voice is so authoritative that Sherlock follows numbly, until his brain catches up and he stops.

"John--"

"Sit on the table, Sherlock. And jacket, please." John will not be deterred. He grabs a stethoscope off the wall and comes to stand by the examination table on the other side of the room.

Something like panic blooms in Sherlock's gut. "John, there's no need."

"Sit on the table, Sherlock. Or I will punch you. Do you understand?" That inflectionless voice again.

Sherlock sits on the end of the table. John pulls the privacy curtain between them and the door.

"Good," John says, coming close. His eyes are bright, but his jaw is set. "Now the jacket. Let me see your ribs."

Sherlock unzips the jacket, and slides it off his shoulders, with no small amount of pain. John takes the jacket, hangs it on a coat rack next to his own. Blue denim, Sherlock notices. It's new.

(Bought last month, worn three days, expensive, the colour a deliberate choice. Possibly bought it himself. More possibly didn't. Sister must have come by. Support in an hour of need. That's what normal people do.)

John is close to him again, probing his ribs through cotton with gentle fingers.

"Does it hurt here?"

Pain flares, Sherlock winces. "Yes."

John nods to himself, probes the other side. "And here?"

"John--"

John huffs out a breath. "You really don't want to talk to me now, Sherlock." John isn't looking at Sherlock's face. "Trust me. You really, really don't." His finger probe lower, where the pain is sharp again, and Sherlock winces again. John's hands fall away, and he steps back. "Take off your shirt."

Sherlock complies. John's hands are quick, his eyes quicker. He takes in the damage without blinking, walks halfway round Sherlock to look at his back. Then there's a pause, a snap of latex, and John's touch comes back cool and rubbery.

"Straighten up."

John's voice is level, tone completely professional. It is a brand new life experience, Sherlock realises - he honestly cannot recall if he's ever had a physical examination by an actual doctor in an actual office, and one that did not involve some level of emergency. He thinks he might have deleted most of those. Pity. He has no baseline.

He is instructed to breathe in and out, and again, while a cold stethoscope is pressed against his back, then his front. He is asked about numbness, tingling, nausea, double vision or difficulty breathing. His eyes are checked for proper dilation, and his head for injuries. He is instructed to report the pain on the scale of one to ten (he settles on seven). He is told to urinate in a cup (John does him the small favour of turning away to get more supplies and to fetch a wheeled instrument tray from the corner). In short order, Sherlock's kidneys are pronounced undamaged. Then, one by one, the scrapes and cuts on his skin are cleaned and dressed. All the while, John murmurs quiet commands, and Sherlock obeys each one without question.

Under normal circumstances, Sherlock thinks, all this would be quite dull.

At last, John steps back. "Anything else I should know of?" Sherlock frowns, then follows John's gaze down.

There is a small, elongated stain, black on black, where the knife sliced into the flesh at the top of Sherlock's thigh. Blood has seeped through the fabric, congealed and dried.

"Go on," says John, and grabs his doctor's chair, wheels it over, sits on it and waits.

This is normal, Sherlock reminds himself.

He stands, unbuckles his belt and lets his jeans fall down to his ankles. He kicks them off. Can't really bend to pick them up without risking John questioning that seven, so he leaves them where they are and sits back on the table, knees slightly apart. John wheels close to him. Sherlock watches John's hands.

John examines the wound, gets the antiseptic from the instrument tray.

"Your clothes are new," he says.

"Hmm?" The sting makes it hard to focus.

John cleans the blood with a cotton swab. "All of your clothes. They're new. Worn only once. Worn just now, I bet." He puts the swab away, applies more antiseptic. "And you smell like detergent, but not the kind used in soap, and not enough to mask the smells underneath it. If you washed, how come you smell like a factory? This one needs stitches." He wheels away to get more supplies, wheels back in.

Sherlock waits patiently for John to finish applying the stitches. Then he asks, "So why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do I smell like a factory?"

John thinks for a moment, and the frown on his face is so familiar Sherlock _aches_. But then John stops himself (Is it a technique? It must be a technique.), the frown smoothing out, and he shrugs. "I don't know. Never mind." He stands, and begins to clean out the tray. He throws the used swabs and the wrappers into the bin, and peels off his gloves. He washes his hands, rubs every finger clean with singular purpose. It takes him a little while. When he's done, he dries his hands on a paper towel, and chucks the towel into the bin as well. Then he lays a new sheet on the instrument tray and wheels it back into the corner.

"There," he says, turning. "All done. Seven, you said?"

"What?" Sherlock blinks. He realises he is dizzy. He is not sure he still remembers how exactly he got here, into this room with the over-bright fluorescent light and sterilised instruments and wheeling chairs.

"The pain," says John. "Seven out of ten?"

"Oh. Yes."

"Are you on any drugs right now?"

It's such a simple question. How many days has it been? Sherlock tries to recall. It's hard. He doesn't even remember when he last slept anymore. John is waiting with an expression of infinite patience.

"No," Sherlock says eventually. He is fairly sure. It'll have to do.

"Good," says John, and turns away, goes to a locked cabinet at the other end of the room. He punches in a code. The door swings open. He searches the shelves for a bit, takes out two small bottles.

"Are you going back to the flat now?" he says, shutting the cabinet and coming back to shuffle in the drawers again. 

Sherlock blinks, says nothing. He doesn't know how to parse the question.

"Your flat," John says. "Baker Street. Are you going there now. After-after this."

"I--," Sherlock says, and stops.

However many times he rehearsed this very conversation, in every incarnation he could think of (obviously none of them matter now), he never considered what would come after. Baker Street has always been there (that's why he ordered it kept intact), and John had always been at Baker Street with him. What Sherlock has somehow failed to realise was that there would be a place of _transition_ \- that somehow he and John would have to transfer, between _here_ and _there_ , so that life could resume as normal.

Now that he thinks about it, it does sound rather ridiculous.

"Right," says John. "Didn't tell her yet, did you?" He takes two packages out of the drawer, rips open the foil. He begins to fill a hypodermic syringe from one of the little bottles. "All right, then. Hop down and turn round."

Sherlock just looks at him.

John sighs. "Palladone. Should take that seven down to two. And Phenergan, for the nausea."

Sherlock blinks. "What nausea?"

"From the Palladone. Now hop down and turn around. Please."

Sherlock nods. Of course. Side effects. He is intimately familiar. He reminds himself again that this is completely normal. He slides off the table and turns his back to John.

"Pull your pants down a bit. Yes, like that, that's enough."

And here goes another brand new life experience, Sherlock thinks, staring at the opposite wall. Somehow, his exceedingly wide acquaintance with all kinds of needles failed to include this particular point of injection. There is something to be said, he thinks, about a man standing behind you with a syringe while you're holding down your pants.

The needle goes in with no pain, but the pressure of the drug expanding inside the muscle does hurt - it's a new sensation today, a distraction from all the others. The second needle goes in with no pain at all.

"Done," says John. "You can get dressed now. Let me know if you need help."

Help? Sherlock dresses in silence. He pulls the t-shirt gingerly over his head. It hurts to move. Maybe he is immune by now. He wonders idly about the dose.

He is halfway through reaching for his jacket when it hits, and John catches him on his way to the floor.

"Steady," says John. "Sit, I'll help you with this."

He is deposited on John's chair, and his jacket is deposited on his shoulders. He sits there for a while, blinking in wonder at the absolutely fascinating world through the very familiar fog around his brain. He feels like he's drowning in cotton balls. It's _amazing._

"Come on." A tugging at his arm. John. He forgot.

John drugged him.

Oh.

Isn't that _marvellous_?

"I had to come, John," he blurts out, before he forgets that too.

"Yes, Sherlock, now get up. You're heavy, I can't do all the work. I have a bum leg. You might recall."

"No, no, you don't understand, John. It's over." He leans against John's shoulder. "It's over, and I had to come."

Cool breeze hits his face. Somehow, they are outside. Some thread in Sherlock's brain searches for the smell of cigarette smoke, doesn't find it.

"Mycroft knew," he says. He nods to himself, satisfied. "And here we are."

"Mycroft?-- Never mind. You are not making any sense right now, and you won't make much sense until tomorrow. Or possibly Wednesday. Taxi!"

"You don't understand," Sherlock whines. "You see, but you do not observe, John."

"Whatever. Shut up. Blenheim Terrace, please, thank you."

They ride.

*

When Sherlock was nine, he was bullied at school.

Probably.

He must have. He doesn't remember the particulars that much.

He was the best, always the best, at everything, and he didn't even try. That must have not gone well with the others. Whoever they were. He doesn't know. He deleted them.

He did not delete the first visit to the school nurse. A split lip, a few bruises, nothing major. He remembers the burn of antiseptic and the disapproving atmosphere. Mycroft sitting outside the principal's office, sent forth by Mummy to collect him.

The array of implements at the nurse's office was the first thing that truly held his interest that day.

Sherlock remembers _that_ very well.

*

The world tilts, and the pavement is the new ceiling, Sherlock falling up towards it through layers of melted glue.

Hands grasp his shoulders and pull him, flip the world back on its axis.

"Sherlock, stop! Christ, you're like an ox."

Car door slams.

"Yes, thank you, keep the change."

The taxi drives away. Sherlock blinks, takes in his surroundings.

A row of neat, brick tenement houses. Clean. Quiet. Decidedly not John's flavour.

Yet John is steering them towards a blue door, six steps onto the porch, a jingling of keys.

John has the keys.

Well, of course he has the keys. It's his flat.

Dark inside. Corridor, more stairs, bedroom. John doesn't call out to anyone, which means she isn't home.

Well, of course she isn't home.

She's in the hospital.

...and there, there go all the carefully constructed defences, all the mental blocks (barricades, mountains, steel bars and bolted windows), all the safety locks he has built for the last six months. The facts, liberated from their long compression, unfurl themselves and settle into his brain, burn into his occipital cortex with such force he thinks himself momentarily blind.

Pictures. Mycroft had sent him _pictures._

But of course he would, the conniving bastard.

Only important facts, Sherlock had said. Nothing that I don't have to know. John could be put in danger.

So naturally, Mycroft sent pictures.

John stark in his army uniform. The woman, _Mary_ , graceless in her beiges and pinks. A small ceremony. Not many guests. Family. Stamford. Lestrade. Molly. Mrs Hudson. Middle of winter.

He hurt.

He doesn't remember much of the next several days. Mycroft cleaned him up, of course, dragged him out from yet another pit of chemical despair (in record speed; must have been the guilt; he did overdo it, a little, with the photographs), and Sherlock was left with a splintering headache, a terrible case of dry mouth, and a lingering feeling of wanting to _just stay dead._

"There," says John, "down you go."

The sensation of falling is terrifying for a second, but then his head hits soft pillows and it's good again, his head full of cotton wool. John is shoving his legs onto the bed, pulling off his Yves Saint Laurents. There is a pull under his back too, and then John liberates him of the leather jacket. It's much better, Sherlock realises, being handled like this when one is closer to sleeping rather than vomiting. He smiles, content at this realisation.

John is saying something.

Sherlock doesn't hear, circling down and down into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sherlock was seven, Mycroft had acquired a girlfriend. She was taller than him, hazardously skinny, and the most fascinating creature Sherlock had ever met. She talked with her hands, smiled with her eyes, did things with her mouth (to Mycroft, yes) Sherlock did not have the verbs for, and did not treat Sherlock like he was seven. There was no giggling and hiding from the annoying little brother, there was in fact very little giggling at all. Instead, there were serious conversations (as serious as his mind could comprehend, then), a lot of reading and a lot of maths. Tons and tons and tons of maths.

She was an anomaly, and Sherlock hadn't realised that - for years after, he'd be convinced that women who giggled and owned less than three hundred books possessed no relevant intellectual qualities, and therefore were not worth his time. 

She disappeared from their lives unnoticed (or maybe he had other things to occupy him at the time), and he only realised when Mycroft was sitting at the Christmas table (gorging himself on cake, what else), that she was not present where she had been before. When he asked after her, Mycroft only looked at him, and helped himself to more whipped cream. 

He met her again (chance encounter at a coffee shop) when he was at the university, and Mycroft was already wearing suits. 

She was still skinny, still put together in an alarmingly incoherent way, with her hair short where it had been long, her eyes behind glasses where they had been bare, and packing a Glock 22 and a CIA badge to match. 

He didn't know if Mycroft was still seeing her, but the knowledge that she could now kill them both in a variety of interesting ways was something he was glad to add to the list of things he appreciated in women.

* 

In March, Santa Monica was chilly and bright. 

Irene's flat was identical to all other flats in the complex, high-end and quietly luxurious, nothing remarkable from the outside. Concrete, glass and steel, large windows facing westwards, towards the Pacific, gleaming metal railings on the empty balcony. 

He knocked, and she opened the door without query, clearly expecting somebody else. 

"Sherlock Holmes," she said, breathless. Her smile was honest; the blaze in her eyes exactly as he remembered. She looked him up and down, as if reluctant to believe he was there in the flesh. He let himself be studied, let her world realign to the new reality of him being alive. 

Motionless and expressionless on her doorstep, he waited, and he could read _everything._

Her hair done up, not with the usual strictness; she let a few locks escape, on purpose - a divergence from her usual business attire, aimed at putting the other person at ease. Designer jewellery, though most items left on the dresser. Make-up unfinished, nails clear, white cotton blouse open at the neck and white cotton trousers rolled up twice. Bare feet, sandals waiting just inside the door; how she opened the door, the purse on the table, the shawl over the back of the chair, the shade of her lipstick, the colour on her cheeks. The pieces clicked - a companion, a _lover_ , not from her own profession; picking her up for a casual brunch, a walk on the beach. 

She shook herself. "Rumours of your death indeed," she said, with appreciation. She opened the door wider. 

He stepped in. 

She poured herself a glass (Laphroaig, twenty five years old; a gift), sent a text, and sat down on the white leather couch. Back relaxed, legs crossed, drink at her lips. Comfortable. He took the chair opposite. They looked at each other for a while, reading. 

"I heard you were on the run," she said at last. "I didn't believe them. All liars." She took a drink. "So tell me, how did you do it?" 

He smiled. She did cut to the chase. 

"Hunt," he said. 

"Excuse me?" 

"Not run. Hunt." 

She nodded, eyes bright, attentive, darting from his face to his hands, his shorn hair. "You won't tell me." 

"No." 

"I could make you." 

He smiled again. "No." 

She smiled too, indulgent enough to grant him a small victory. She took another sip, regarded him for a moment in silence. 

"Sherlock," she said, serious. "Why are you here?" 

He nodded. "I need information. Your establishment here, in LA. There is a certain client." 

"Ah," she said, looking away. "Not a social call, then." 

"Obviously." 

"Hm. A girl can dream." But her eyes were already hard. 

He explained. She listened. A client, with unpredictable schedule, but very precise needs. She had provided, before. The client would undoubtedly show up again. All Sherlock needed was a date and a time. He would take it from there. 

"And what after?" 

"You needn't worry about that." Mycroft's precise cleaning machine had been rolling full steam now for eleven months. 

She hummed, finished her drink. He waited. She pursed her lips. 

"And what of payment?" she asked, looking him straight in the eye. 

He hadn't expected that. The score between them had not been settled, but he was not the one in debt. He tried to keep the surprise from showing on his face, but she was good. Oh, she was good. 

She laughed. "A debt of this magnitude, Sherlock," she said, "is best paid on a more suitable occasion. For this, I would set a... smaller price." 

There was a gleam in her eye. Sherlock knew it. 

"I am listening," he said. 

She leaned closer, pointed a finger at his chest. "Mine," she told him. "For a day. To do with as I please. Twenty four hours. Then I give you the client, and get out of your way. Do we have a deal?" 

He considered. Tried to read her intention. Failed. So she _could_ block him, run the veil over his eyes if she wanted. Interesting. 

Stall, then. He leaned back, steepled his fingers under his chin. "Prostitute myself for information? Surely you can be less obvious." 

She sighed, then sat back as well, raised her eyebrows at him. "Well? Have you got anything else?" 

He considered. "Money should not be a problem." 

"You mean Mycroft's money." 

"Of course," he scoffed. "Why would I use my own money if I can use his." He paused. "Although for you I can make an exception." 

"Sherlock," she said. "You do realise this is pointless, of course." 

He did. He raised his chin. "The terms are too ambiguous. I will need clarification." 

She laughed, dismissive. "Oh, sweetheart, fine print is the best part of the deal." 

"Then there is no deal." 

She didn't miss a beat. "Oh well." She stood. "Your problem not mine." She went over to the counter, poured herself another drink. 

He considered it more. Balancing between who she was, whom he knew her to be, his impression of her emotions towards him and her need to even the score turned out to be harder than he had expected. Bargaining from a clearly weaker position was absurd. Backtracking from what he'd said, impossible. 

Besides, he had to admit, there was a thrill in the unknowable. And he had been aware of it before he came to her for help. 

"Fine," he said at last. "Deal." 

Her smile over the rim of the glass was something to be reckoned with. 

* 

After Karachi, they had booked the same flight back to London, with a short connection in Doha. Hiding in plain sight had been Sherlock's idea - getting seats next to each other had been hers. 

She didn't talk. Didn't bore him to death with incessant chatter. Didn't lower her lashes, bite her lip, or fiddle with her hair. Instead, she slept the sleep of the very solidly tired, the sort of tired you were just before you were very solidly dead. 

In London, Sherlock did not meet her eyes; he got up, got off the plane, and kept walking. 

* 

In Santa Monica, in her flat made of concrete, glass and steel, she made him take a shower and drink a glass of whisky. Objectively, he could appreciate the poison running down his throat, with a smooth aftertaste of wood and burnt cigars. Intellectually, he shrank from it with his whole being. Aside from as a numbing agent, alcohol got him nowhere. It never had. 

From a wardrobe in her guest bedroom, Irene produced a set of men's clothes for him to wear - white, what else - and Sherlock felt a vague sense of unease. Her lover was a woman, he was fairly certain. He rechecked the details all the same (Could she fake that? Had she lied to John?), but they told the same story. Woman, younger, of recent acquaintance. Didn't stay over often. Did, however, stay over the night before. Worked in advertising. Not very high up. Had money, possibly from family. 

Wearing another man's clothes wasn't like a disguise - it was like putting on somebody else's skin. Revolting. 

It took him an embarrassingly long moment to realise the clothes were all unworn. Not new - they'd been in that wardrobe a while. But never worn. The fit was perfect. 

After he got dressed, Irene locked up the flat and they went for a walk. She hung on his arm. He led, and they went through the motions. 

The sand on the beach was deep, made him unsteady (Sherlock had little experience with beaches). The water was very cold. Irene made him walk in and stand there for a while. She stood next to him, waves coming up to their knees, their shoes behind them in the sand. It felt like a christening. 

"Now you've been in the Pacific," she told him, like it was an accomplishment. "Just look at it. It's so vast." 

He nodded, but to be honest, he couldn't see very far through the haze over the horizon. But he could believe it was very vast indeed. 

Next, Irene got them a taxi and they went to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The names on the stars were all meaningless. Irene marvelled at each one, like she'd never been there before. 

"Walking on handprints of so many dead people," she said, looking down. She shuddered, and felt heavier on his arm. 

"Some of them must still be alive," he pointed out. He wasn't entirely certain, but the logic was sound: without them the main industry of this part of the world would have not been able to function. 

Irene only laughed. 

Next, they finally had dinner. 

The restaurant was high-end, expensive. Dark, intimate atmosphere, even with full light outside. Sherlock filed the name in the Blue Room and let it go. The waiter brought water, ice clinking in the glass. Irene closed Sherlock's menu in front of his face and ordered him a steak. When the food arrived, she sipped her drink, nibbled at her salad and watched him do battle with the biggest single serving of protein in his life. 

Red wine went superbly with that. He hadn't known. 

And tea went equally superbly with the Creole bread pudding she got for dessert. Only one, though, for herself. She held out a spoon. "Try this," she said. "It's delicious." 

Six hours in, and she had him eating out of her hand. Sherlock marvelled a little at that. She was pulling him in like an undertow; eroding his defences again. And she'd done nothing much out of the ordinary - expecting him to hold her hand at the beach, waiting for him to hold the door open, to pull back the chair for her at the table. Not expecting him to entertain her with pointless conversation. 

Controlling what he wore, where he went, what he ate. Filling him with alcohol he didn't want. 

Night had fallen by the time they got back to the flat. Irene texted as she unwound her shawl, then turned off her phone. She went to the cupboard and got them more drinks. Then she sat on the couch, put her feet on the coffee table and patted the cushions. 

There it goes, thought Sherlock, as he accepted the gin and tonic and stretched out perpendicular to her on the couch, on his back, with his head on her thigh. There goes the smooth escalation she'd been building all day. He thought to ask, at some point, to make her make it explicit, but he knew better than to engage in verbal sparring when she held so much over his head. The last link, the one he'd been chasing for months, ever since Prague. A name, an impression, a bullet wound in his side. 

Irene produced a cigarette from the pack on the coffee table, lighted it, took a drag. She handed the cigarette to him, then picked up the remote and turned on the telly. She channel-hopped while he smoked (ravenously so). She settled for a while on a news channel, then on a hospital drama. She took her cigarette back and threaded her free hand through Sherlock's hair. He closed his eyes. 

The doctors on the telly argued about something or other. 

The TV doctors were always arguing. 

The food and alcohol were weighing him down. Idly, Sherlock wondered if he was capable of becoming aroused, should Irene require it at some point of the evening. The gin and tonic sat untouched in his curled hands. 

"That doctor of yours," Irene said. "I heard he got hitched." 

Sherlock smiled. Ah, admirable approach. Strip him down and remake his exterior, and then numb him up and strip him down from the inside. Turn his focus, burn everything else until the only thing remaining was _her._

He opened his eyes, held his hand out for the cigarette. "So?" 

She handed it over. Their fingers brushed, but hers didn't linger. Interesting. 

"You tell me," she said. Ice clinked in the glass. 

He smoked. Her fingers scraped lightly across his scalp. 

The doctors on the telly stopped arguing and proceeded to pick apart a living body through a wide and vividly red cut in the chest cavity. Sherlock found himself watching with interest. 

"So how _did_ you pull it off?" Irene asked, after a while. Would she not let it go, until she made him reveal the whole sordid little ruse? 

He wondered how far she would go to get it. No obvious implements anywhere in sight, but then he had not yet seen her bedroom. 

"Smoke and mirrors," he said, handing back the cigarette. 

His mind was losing focus. He could barely feel the glass in his hand. If he spilled the alcohol, would she magically produce more clothes? Or would she leave him naked? Images and sounds danced under his eyelids: his memory of the clean planes of her bare skin, the shadows on the undersides of her breasts, a half-remembered lashing amplified by drugs; a dead woman with a destroyed face on a cold, metal slab; the way Irene's neck curved when she slept on the plane. 

When he woke up, it was day. The clock on the wall said 10:33. 

He'd slept for over twelve hours. 

His mind shrank in panic that lasted exactly one point two seconds (Irene had been for a jog at the crack of dawn, came back, took a shower, changed, went out to meet girlfriend), and then his body reported two things: a) he was parched and b) he hadn't felt so completely rested in over eleven months. 

There was a white envelope on the coffee table. On top of it, a post-it note said: _Back at 11. Make breakfast._

He didn't open the envelope. He made eggs. Laid down bacon with military precision. 

She arrived on time. Drank an orange juice and told him to eat both portions of breakfast. He did. She settled on the sofa again, waited for him to clean up in the kitchen and join her. 

He sat on the chair. He'd changed into his own clothes. 

At 11:26 he picked up the envelope and opened it. The piece of paper inside contained a date, a time, and the name of the service provider. Sherlock stood and walked to the door without a word. 

And paused with his hand on the doorknob. 

He turned round. Frowned. "This is not what you were originally intending to do." 

Irene watched him without expression for a while, and then she smiled, the same dazzling smile from back when she was playing the game. She relaxed back into the sofa. 

"Ah, there he is," she said. "Slowed you down quite a bit. I must say I didn't expect to be quite so successful." 

"Successful," he said. 

"Oh yes. I mean, just look at you. Sherlock Holmes, dashing off to new adventures, all juiced up and electric. Spying is the new sexy." 

He cleared his throat. "What happened to brainy?" 

"Brainy is overrated. Too easy to break, the brainy types. And when they catch on, the game is over. Can't do the same trick twice, I'm afraid."

Sherlock considered, focused, let the pieces click. The previous twenty four hours realigned themselves, stripped themselves down to basics: shower, clothes, food. Moderate exercise. Small amount of alcohol, half a cigarette. Scalp massage. Sleep. Information. 

The aborted conversation about John. Not a cut, an _opportunity_. To share, to unburden himself. He almost laughed, incredulous. 

"You attempted to break me with _kindness_?" 

She didn't answer. She kept smiling. 

"I didn't tell you anything," he said. "You wanted to know--" He stopped himself. Ah. A ruse. A red herring, something for his mind to latch onto, while the rest was being slowly taken apart. Clever. Simple. 

Brilliant. 

He didn't acknowledge this. He didn't have to. 

"Am I to understand that now you know what I like?" he said. 

She scoffed. "Oh, don't be stupid. This was not what you like. This was what you needed." She paused, considered. "I could try to give you what you like, but we both know that's not going to cut it." 

He stood there, sizing her up. Another thing he would not, he didn't have to acknowledge. His bones were singing, his muscles were amped up and ready to go. He pocketed the envelope. 

"Thanks for the data," he said. 

"You are welcome, Sherlock Holmes," she said as he closed the door. 

* 

He wakes up alone in an empty house. 

He knows it's empty the moment he opens his eyes - he doesn't know yet how he knows, whether it's that familiar kind of silence where the sounds of the outside world are much louder and clearer than anything inside, or whether his brain had already noticed and processed the note on the table, the glass of water, two white pills, open window, a small layer of dust on the furniture. 

_Dust is eloquent, John._

He blinks, gathers his wits. Dust says this room has not been used-- no, has not been _dusted_ in a week and a half, which fits the timeline, Mary's hospital stay stretching from ten days ago (Wednesday afternoon, to be precise) to a possible infinity (that, of course, is not logical, but no less true for it), and her family is obviously affluent but either not affluent enough to pay for a cleaning lady, or else she stopped keeping one, to avoid offending John's lower middle class sensibilities. Or maybe they started saving for kids--

Sherlock stops this train of thought. Irrelevant. 

The note is a post-it stuck to the glass of water: _Went to hospital. Stay in bed._

He can see in his mind's eye John agonising over the second part. _As a certified healthcare professional-- You will most likely ignore this, but-- I left you only enough painkillers to last six hours, so--_

Or maybe John didn't agonise over the second part at all. _Stay in bed_. Maybe it is just what it is. 

Sherlock sits up. 

Whiteout. 

He must have made a sound. He is not sure. His throat hurts, and his ears are ringing. 

When he can see again, he leans carefully against the headboard and reaches to the bedside table. He crunches the pills, downs the water, sticks the post-it note to the lamp. 

Hospital, it says. Not the clinic. 

He breathes, stares at the ceiling, ruminates briefly on people's propensity for engaging in activities over which they have no control. Losing themselves, even in pain, is a worthy goal, under certain conditions, but getting a head start on grief? What possible purpose could that serve? He doesn't know. He will have to ask John, later. Possibly much later. 

He waits for the pills to dissolve and begin entering his bloodstream before he gets out of bed to tend to the rest of his physical needs. 

The flat is decorated with varying levels of taste, a mixture of inherited and new furniture, simplistic IKEA design and ornate pieces preserved with a sentimental hand. The bathroom is green, with hand-painted murals and tiny hand towels with a flowery pattern. The soap is handmade, also green, and the incense sticks next to the sink are half burnt, the old smell nauseating. Sherlock appropriates a toothbrush from an unopened package on the top shelf, tastes and spits the green fennel-flavoured toothpaste. 

There is a tiny white silk rose stuck behind the edge of the mirror; it looks oddly out of place in the green bathroom. The layer of dust on it is small, so it's been added recently. A sentimental oddity, most likely. Sherlock grimaces. How frighteningly, ostensibly dull, he thinks, examining his face in the mirror (he will need a shave, later). How can John stand this, this living-green, fair-trade, yoga-and-Pilates, organic, straightforward, _deafening_ normalcy of this woman? What does she do to help him, to _fix_ him, to fulfil his need for danger, for adventure, for _living?_

Dying must be most exciting thing that has happened to her in her entire life. 

(Sherlock knows, of course, that this is jealousy. It, too, he can identify very precisely.) 

Organic living turns out to be good for something. The eggs in the fridge are large and brown. Sherlock makes an omelette, drops ham and onions into the pan. (He doesn't know where anything is, but then he looks and he knows where _everything_ is.) There is also tea, which is decent (and obviously fair trade), and a good tea-brewing set. 

Then he notices a jar of pickled gherkins on the middle shelf of the right-side cupboard. 

He eats the omelette slowly, and thinks about his options. John doesn't have much in terms of laboratory equipment, not at this flat, but Sherlock has been known to do more with less. He sips his tea, then finds a good, thin knife, and gets out what must be Mary's best china. 

John's key turns in the lock several hours later (one thread in Sherlock's brain, one very _attentive_ thread, follows John up the entrance stairs, through the key-turning and crossing the threshold, through the hallway and into the flat; it reads in the rhythm of his footsteps that he's not gotten any good news today; how would he - there is no good news forthcoming, and John must know that). When John comes into the kitchen, Sherlock doesn't look at him - instead, he peers very carefully at the thirteen thin slices of gherkin, arranged on three white china plates in order of gradient (direct result of the level of absorbency of ink; John will probably miss his fountain pens; no matter, Sherlock can get him more), and observation with the naked eye is not really as good as with proper equipment, but he could have hardly asked anyone in his homeless network to just fetch him the Prior from Baker Street, not when he is going back there very soon, so naked eye has to do. He's gotten some interesting results. 

John is quiet for a little while, remaining in the kitchen doorway. Sherlock squeezes the dropper (appropriated from a bottle of vitamin D), and doesn't look up. 

Finally John moves, setting his shoulder bag softly on the floor, and he walks up to the table to look at Sherlock's handiwork.

"Pendleton case?" John says quietly, and happiness blooms in Sherlock's chest, sudden and wide. He doesn't let it show on his face. 

"I thought you solved that," says John. 

Sherlock swallows, doesn't put down the dropper. "Follow-up," he says. And then, for the sake of completeness. "More observations. Same conclusion, of course, but could be useful data." 

"For what? For when someone attacks you with a pickled vegetable? I'd say that's... kind of unlikely." 

Sherlock lets himself smile at that. "Yes," he says. "In fact, extremely unlikely--" He looks up at John, and _oh_ \--

John is right _there_ , in his well-worn jeans, a hideous green jumper, a pressed white shirt, the collar framing his throat. Crow's feet crinkle at the corners of his eyes, and his smile is there, but not there, shadowed by something sinister, something dark. 

"--but not impossible," Sherlock finishes. His mouth is completely dry. 

John looks at him, and Sherlock can't possibly look away - he feels trapped, like they're a mouse and a snake - so he keeps looking at John and John keeps looking at him, and it's something they've done many times before, _before_ , but usually there had been more context, something Sherlock could hold on to, something he could peel apart, dissect and respond to accordingly, make John laugh or lash out, make John _understand_ ; instead there is a chasm, one of his own creation, and he cannot, in any practical scenario, bridge an eighteen-month-long gap in their lifetimes without knowing exactly how far they have diverged. 

So it's John who breaks eye contact first. He nods to himself, clears his throat, and goes to pick up his bag. 

"Come on," he says. "I need to look at your stitches." 

"I'm fine," says Sherlock, on autopilot. He bends over the table again, fills the dropper with ink from the creamer cup, measures three droplets onto the oldest gherkin slice (he doesn't really have to; the experiment is done; he should clean up, or better yet, he should let _John_ clean up). The bending compresses his chest and the pain flares up, breaking through the layers of numbness. The drugs have worn off an hour ago; he's been working on fumes. 

John doesn't miss a beat. "And how are your ribs?" and Sherlock smiles with one side of his mouth. 

"Really, John," he says. "Blackmail? So early in the morning?" 

John scoffs. "It's two in the afternoon, Sherlock. And yes, there might be a treat in this for you, if you behave. So kindly drop your pants." 

Sherlock puts down the dropper. 

It should be disconcerting, the ease with which he takes his clothes off for John. This has never been an issue, _before_ \- wound up, exhausted after a case, a run, a brush with the inevitable, John tending to Sherlock's wounds and then to his own; Sherlock stripped down to his pants in the kitchen chair, or sitting on the table top, or on the edge of the tub in the bathroom. 

But this is different. This, doing this in _this_ kitchen, Sherlock in the chair, John on his knees on the floor, both of them surrounded by the paraphernalia of a normal life instead of beakers and test tubes and the occasional takeout, with sun coming in through the window instead of white overhead lights. Different room, different chair, different time. Still, his body should be more or less the same, leaning into the ministrations of John's hands, which should be more or less the same, too. Sherlock closes his eyes and shuts off the olfactory input, and instead concentrates on John's gentle gloved hands on the inside of his thigh, and the illusion of being back at Baker Street is almost complete. 

"That was our best china," murmurs John, after a while. 

"Hm?" 

"A present from Mary's mother. Hold still." 

Sherlock holds still. 

There are several things he could say. They march in front of his eyes, under his closed eyelids, and he could pick one at random. _I couldn't find anything else. You don't keep enough equipment at this flat, what if you urgently need it? What if I urgently need it? You're not taking this with you, so I don't see a problem. Yes, excellent china indeed, very clean._

"Come back to Baker Street with me," is what he says instead. He doesn't open his eyes. 

John breathes out. The exhalation feels cool against Sherlock's skin. John doesn't say anything; he keeps working - the gentle fingers leave Sherlock's thigh, tug his t-shirt up. Sherlock opens his eyes. John is not looking at his face. Angry? Annoyed? His mouth looks the same either way. Sherlock pulls his t-shirt up and over his head. 

John gently palpates his abdomen, his sides, his ribs. 

"Problem?" Sherlock says, to the kitchen wall. He keeps his voice even. 

John shifts his attention to the other side, and Sherlock turns his head, and for a second, they are nose to nose. John looks a little sad now, a little tired. His smile is pained, like it's difficult. Sherlock doesn't know what to make of it. 

"You are joking," John says, quietly. It's not a question. 

Sherlock looks at him, willing John to understand without words. Maybe here, they have not diverged. 

"You are not joking," says John, frowning. 

And then his hands are suddenly not gentle. Sherlock hisses at the pain. John finishes the examination, and stands up. 

"You're scheduled for an X-ray for 4 PM at the clinic," John says, walking to the sink to wash his hands. "If you can be arsed to make it, that is. Emily will know to let you in." He turns on the tap and runs the water, too hot, over his hands. "Now get dressed and get the fuck out of my home." 

Sherlock sits by the table and doesn't move. 

He feels like an idiot. He cannot parse what John just said; he understands the words, but he is unable to attach meaning to the sentence. 

Maybe he should have picked something else to say. Praised the china. Praised John's doctoring skills. 

Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. 

John finishes scrubbing his hands, turns off the tap, and doesn't turn round. He braces his arms on the edges of the sink. His shoulders move under the jumper. The skin of his hands is pink. Sanitised. 

Sherlock waits. 

"Did you not hear what I said." John's voice is deceptively soft, but Sherlock can see the anger coiled in the lines of his shoulders, like shadows under the surface. 

Sherlock wants to make the gamble, right then. How easy it would be, to stand up, to walk across the kitchen, to stand behind John, touch his-- touch his shoulder, his back, his _anything_ , anything to close that distance Sherlock doesn't know how to deal with. 

Because this is what one does, isn't it? Close your eyes and close your ears and shut out the words that one doesn't know how to say. How easy, how _convenient_ it would be, to speak with a touch instead, to pretend that everything will be all right, that everything will be the same as it always was, where in reality _nothing_ can be as it always was, because their _always_ was barely two years and some, and their _afterwards_ was almost as much, and besides, Sherlock doesn't know the language, has not the facility, is not as proficient at it as is John, as John is with Mary, with Sarah, with Jeanette, with almost _anyone else_ , and Sherlock needs to be proficient if he is to attempt it, if he is even to try, and this is hopeless, and fuck Mycroft for getting him into this too early. 

So Sherlock stays put, and says the only thing that is reliable enough to say. 

"You have painkillers for me." 

John laughs, and his back crumbles, shoulder blades sticking out sharp as he bends his head down over the sink. 

"You _bastard_ ," he says, still laughing; it's a terrible, wrenching sound. "You utter _bastard_ , how can you _do_ this to me?" 

Sherlock says nothing. John uncoils, turns to him. His eyes are wet, red-rimmed. He looks at Sherlock, then at the bag on the table, then the cupboards, the window, as if he can't focus long enough to look at one thing. Then he blinks, takes a deep breath--

"Don't do this," Sherlock says, because he's had enough. "Stop it, John." 

"What?" John's is still trying to breathe, to calm down, and Sherlock can see the motions unfolding, the ritual starting, he can see it plain as day. 

"Stop it," Sherlock says, rising from the chair. He takes a step towards John. "Whatever it is you are doing right now, whatever they taught you, stop it. It's not helping." 

John is looking at him with a stubborn set to his jaw, but the ritual has been disturbed - his body is tense, his breathing shallow, and his right hand is at his side, slowly curling into a fist. His left hand is perfectly steady. 

"Yes," Sherlock says, coming closer. "That's it. Good, John." He twists his lips into a smile. He tries to make it look encouraging instead of just scary. (He is aware of the height difference, and hyperaware of his near nakedness. God, he must look terrible, like a madman, risen from the dead, crowding John in the man's own kitchen.) He stops when they are inches apart, looks down into John's eyes (John has stopped breathing. Is John afraid? What is he afraid of?) and Sherlock says "Good" again, and then, "Now let go." 

John swings. 

Sherlock is prepared (rehearsed this, yes, 26% probability), but he still sees stars when John's fist connects. Secondary explosions echo in his chest and his back, his breath goes out of him in a rush and he stumbles, gravity teetering sideways. There's a painful jab in his side (table edge), and his foot (chair leg), and an electric zing up his arm (elbow, table edge again), and then John's other fist connects, the room tilts in the other direction and Sherlock hits the floor. 

And it's sweet, easy, easy and sweet, and he should have done this earlier, should have tried harder to provoke this out of John last night, because this, this is a language too, and Sherlock knows how to speak this one, yes, in this Sherlock can be very convincing. 

He gulps in a breath, coils and rushes up, aiming the grapple at John's middle, intending to tackle John to the ground and use his superior reach to--

John's hand comes down on the top of his head like a hammer, pushing down, unrelenting, and before Sherlock can close the hold, his right arm is wrenched up and over, the rest of his body going with it, twisting up and around (stretching, burning, the pain in his ribs an impossible white heat), his hands lose purchase and Sherlock hits the floor again, sideways, shoulder to linoleum at John's feet. 

He immediately curls around John's legs, arranges his body in a non-threatening, submissive position, shielding his face from the blows. 

There are no blows. 

"Fuck," says John's voice from above him instead. Sherlock blinks his eyes open, and John's shoes swim into view, and there is a grip of something sudden and cold in Sherlock's stomach (could be love, could be terror), because John's shoes have really hard soles, and pointed tips, and that would bruise really bad and really clear--

"Fuck." Closer now. John is kneeling down. "You bloody idiot." 

The invective is sharp, but there is no force behind it. The emotions have drained, quickly. Too quickly. 

This quickly might not be enough. 

Eighteen months. Nothing might ever be enough. 

John touches him. His hip, his thigh, hand sliding down to his knee, pushing it up, pressing his legs open just a fraction. Sherlock can't help it; he opens his mouth and breathes. 

"You tore your stitches," John says, letting go of his knee. "Fuck. Lie back." 

Too quickly, ah, yes. Stupid. _Obvious_. Lo and behold, witness again, John's other lightning-fast transformation, into Doctor Watson the Good Samaritan. Should have seen that one coming. Should have shielded his wounds better. Should have gone for the heel upper cut, put more steam into it. _Fuck._

Sherlock rolls over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. He breathes. He doesn't say anything when John comes back with his bag again, and round and round they go, John's fingers gentle on his skin (no gloves), and honestly, how many times is John going to lose so easily? 

"Huh," says John. "That's new." 

"Hm?" Because Sherlock truly can't be arsed to be anything else than monosyllabic at this point. 

John's face above him is... amused, of all things. And he is not looking at Sherlock's face, or where his own hands are. Well, almost--

Oh _God_. Sherlock feels his face heat up (and not only his jaw, throbbing from the force of the blows). He groans, and puts his arm over his eyes. 

John works in silence for a while, well, for a _very little_ while, and then he says, "Well--" 

"Shut up," says Sherlock. 

John tries again. "Well, if I'd--" 

"Oh, for God's sake, shut _up_. I'm alive, I'm lying on the floor in your kitchen, I'm naked, and you're touching me. It's a normal physical reaction." 

John continues to be amused. "Well, if I'd known earlier that getting punched in the face turns you on, my life would have been so much more entertaining." He pats Sherlock's knee, then his hand stills, and he sighs. "And god, yes, you're alive." His voice is quiet again, and the amusement is gone. "How you are alive is beyond me at this point, but yes. Right you are. There. Alive." 

Sherlock puts down his arm. He swallows. "John. If you do want me to explain, I will." 

John looks at him, sad and bitter and blue, and then smiles again, without humour, and pats Sherlock's knee one more time. "You know," he says. "I honestly don't give a fuck." 

* 

Sherlock doesn't go for the X-ray (because _really, John, broken or bruised, the treatment is just the same_ ), and John doesn't kick him out. 

They don't talk. Not about anything important. 

John gets them Thai for lunch (he clears the remains of the pickled gherkin experiment; Sherlock watches him and pointedly doesn't help, sitting at the table and cradling his aching jaw), and then he lends Sherlock a clean t-shirt, shoots him up full of painkillers and sends him to bed. 

The next day, there is a glass of water and two white pills on the bedside table. There is no post-it, but John has obviously gone to the clinic, and will stay there until five in the afternoon, when he is going to pack up and go sit with Mary for at least three hours. Sherlock does the absolute minimum of personal grooming (using John's toiletries, because what else can he use?), then puts on his jeans and shoes (he appropriates John's t-shirt), grabs his jacket and leaves the flat, the door locking shut behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Baker Street is achingly the same, rubbish bags on the curb not picked up, cabs passing by, people walking up and down paying him no mind (just another bloke in a leather jacket). The windows of the commercial building next street over reflect the weak sunlight. Speedy's is open--

\--and so are the windows of 221B.

Of course.

Sherlock picks up the pace, crosses the street and nearly runs up the steps. When he knocks on the door, it is with a bit more force than strictly necessary.

Mrs Hudson opens in less than ten heartbeats, and then Sherlock has her in his arms, lilac and cinnamon and the sweet smell of cannabis. She has aged, visibly, her skin a web of soft tissue stretched over bones, her frame ever so thin, thinner than before. He holds her gently.

"Oh, Sherlock," she says into his shoulder. She is crying. Sherlock wants to tell her there is no need, not anymore.

"Yes, Mrs Hudson," he says instead, and then pulls her delicately but decisively away by the arms. Her hair is in slight morning disarray, but the colour is touched up carefully to the roots; she's still taking care of herself, still living. Good. "Where is he?"

She does her best to pretend, just for a bit, but he raises an eyebrow and she drops the pretence. 

"Your brother's upstairs." She wipes under her eyes, waves him in. "Come on now, Sherlock, come on in. I opened the windows, got it nice and aired out for you."

They trudge upstairs, Sherlock letting her go first, slowing himself down with effort. She doesn't stop talking: about the heat going out last winter and the pipes almost freezing over, about the leak in the roof, and the workman who came in to look at the fridge, and everything is back the way it was in your bedroom, Sherlock, but John, well, obviously John took his things, not that there was that much of it anyway, and so sorry about the rug, I will have to get a new one--

"The rug?" He frowns, but then they are at the top of the stairs, and then in the sitting room, and he can see that the rug in question has indeed been removed. Bare floorboards stretch from wall to wall.

"Ah, Sherlock," says Mycroft, pointedly not rising from John's chair. "Welcome home."

Suit, manila folder, umbrella. A constipated expression. No news. Still tying up loose ends, but nothing major, nothing interesting enough. 

Sherlock shrugs off the jacket, hangs it on the hook on the door. "Hardly a welcoming committee, Mycroft, since this isn't your home."

Mycroft smiles pleasantly, the way he always does when he's about to deliver something sour. "With the amount of rent I paid for it for the last year and a half, it might as well be." He taps his umbrella against the scuffed wood of the floor, pretends to size Sherlock up and down, as if he hadn't the moment Sherlock walked into the room. "Went reasonably well, I see."

Sherlock drops down into his chair. He runs his palms down the armrests, digs his fingers into the cool leather. It shouldn't be, but against all reason, it's grounding.

Mycroft nods appreciatively. "That good, hmm? Glad to see you two working things out."

"I don't need Moran's file," snaps Sherlock.

Mycroft's eyebrows go up, ever so slightly. "Are you saying you don't want it?"

"I'm saying I don't need a _trophy_ , Mycroft."

In the kitchen, Mrs Hudson is clattering with a kettle for tea, talking to herself, humming.

Mycroft scoffs. "Who said anything about trophies, Sherlock? This is merely data. Some background information, in case you ever need to look it up."

"Why would I need to look it up?" Did he misread? Is there news after all? Moran was the last. She had to have been the last.

"No reason." Mycroft always has a reason.

People often misjudge the two of them, especially the two of them together. He and Mycroft have never been us-against-the-world kind of brothers, but they do have an accord, and mostly they don't even need to talk. This, it's all surface tension, the obligatory childish back-and-forth. At the moment they do it to pass the time, to counteract the eighteen months spent far too often in each other's presence.

Mycroft stands, puts the manila folder on the otherwise empty desk (and Sherlock notices three of the same type, already there; he missed them when he came in; clearly he is not up to his usual level; it will have to be corrected)."I trust you have been furnished with appropriate pain medication."

Sherlock doesn't answer. He is looking around the room, cataloguing the details.

The skull is untouched, the emergency cigarette pack stuffed inside inexpertly hidden. His memory tokens, his collections, his books are all there. They have been packed up, then unpacked, and then dusted, and straightened up, many times, but they occupy more or less the same space as when he left them. His case files have not been unpacked – they sit in boxes under the window. The pictures are in the same places on the walls. None of them are missing.

"So we are going back to this, then," says Mycroft, twirling his umbrella against the empty floorboards.

The kitchen is spotless. The laboratory equipment is unpacked, but hidden away. What is visible of it has been cleaned and arranged on the counters, where it didn't fit into the cupboards. The table is empty. So is the sink. The fridge has been fixed, and wiped clean. The floor has been recently disinfected. Where is the rug, though?

"Pity. I quite enjoyed myself this past year."

The rug, the rug, now that is a conundrum. There are no signs on the floor that would point to an altercation, but there must have been one. Sherlock looks up. The ceiling is exactly as it's always been, so the leak in the roof hasn't gotten this far; John's bedroom, probably (Sherlock doesn't want to think about John's bedroom). There must have been an altercation, though; something in the rug that ordinary means couldn't get out. Evidence. Therefore the rug had to disappear. But altercation with whom?

"Oh, well. Good day to you, dear brother. I hope everything turns out... agreeable. Good morning, Mrs Hudson."

And it must have been serious. There have to be signs, somewhere. The flat has been expertly cleaned, Mycroft's ghost people taking care of whoever attempted to-- Ah, no, there it is, a scrape on the doorway, they were paying attention to the floor, must have missed it. But it isn't enough – Sherlock needs more data, or else he will be adjusting the facts to fit the theory, which is dangerous and stupid.

He scans the room some more, but there are no other clues to be found, he'll have to ask Mycroft to get more data; or maybe there's data in these manila folders on the desk. 

Mycroft always has a reason.

Sherlock blinks. "I'm sorry, Mycroft, you were saying?"

But Mycroft is already gone.

Mrs Hudson sets a plate of tea and sandwiches next to his chair, and plants herself in the chair opposite with an expectant expression.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

*

When she finally leaves, Sherlock lies back in his chair and attempts to think.

He can't.

The flat is his flat, and his things are all there, and they have been rearranged back to his specifications – but the arrangement is not quite correct. There are books out of place, single books among hundreds of books, but he can see each and every one. The boxes full of case files grate at his senses, the fraying cardboard making his fingers twitch. His shoes are comfortable, but the floor is too empty without the rug on it, and Sherlock feels that if he slips, he will not be able to stop falling. 

He closes his eyes against the nagging reality of it, but he knows it won't help. Never has, never will. The controlled chaos of his flat is merely chaos to an unaccustomed eye (which is everyone else's, including John's). Sherlock always knows where things are – he put them there, how could he not know? – and when things fall behind cupboards and under the sofa, it doesn't change anything – he still knows exactly where they are, or where they were last, and from there he can deduce their most probable location.

But this, this is clean and organised, but it's foreign, _alien_. The awareness of it is crushing him, blocking out memory, eating into his computing power, and he knows he won't be able to stay in the chair for long. The world is _crooked_ , and he needs to _fix_ it.

He breathes, shakes himself off, stands up, toes off his shoes, and begins to put his surroundings back into the right shape.

During the next six hours he exhausts himself to the point of needing more medication, ignores Mrs Hudson's tea and a plate of mini quiches, and finds himself wanting to text John approximately every thirty minutes. He composes the texts in his head, like so:

 _Can't find my sudokube. If borrowed, please return to 221B. SH._ His sudokube is on the mantelpiece, next to the skull. The temptation to smoke is great, but the need to fix is greater.

 _Out of milk. Get some biscuits while you're at it. SH._ Mrs Hudson filled the fridge with enough milk to last him until Christmas. The tea is getting cold, but Sherlock is not thirsty yet.

 _Left my t-shirt at your house. Pick up Chinese on your way over. SH._ He has balled up his t-shirt and stuck it into the inner pocket of his jacket before he left John's house. It is still in there, as Sherlock has not taken the jacket off the hook on the inner side of the door.

Inevitably, afternoon comes. Sherlock doesn't text. He doesn't do much of anything except fixing. And when he is done, he falls into his chair and curls his bare feet against bare floorboards.

The chair opposite him is stubbornly empty.

He doesn't have John's new phone number, anyway.

*

The moment Sherlock realised the exact nature of his affliction was in a hotel lobby in Barcelona. He'd been tracking a minor assassin and had narrowed the choice down to a group of business people freshly arrived on a red eye from South Korea (their luggage still on the trolleys, the attendants waiting on their every move). One of them was trying to breach the language barrier and communicate their names to a very, very confused receptionist. 

Sherlock identified the assassin within the space of a breath, smiled to himself (it had been barely a week in, and everything still seemed fresh and exciting), turned and opened his mouth--

The realisation that there was no one to listen to his deduction hit him like physical pain.

He closed his mouth, breathed through his nose for a moment. Then he strode over, bumped into the woman he’d identified, knocked her purse out of her hands. Bent down, picked it up, handed it back. Apologised profusely. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a man detach himself from the crowd at the other end of the lobby, a gun in the holster under his arm telegraphed in the way he moved. 

Sherlock walked away, and kept walking, away and out, into the brightness of the day outside – but it might as well have been night-time, or hail or a thunderstorm, because his legs were carrying him forward, his breath kept coming in and out of his lungs, and all this was immaterial, because Sherlock could not process anymore, could not understand, he could not even see.

*

He falls into step with Lestrade on the street outside the New Scotland Yard. The sun is inching down behind the buildings, another mild summer day coming to an end, the air getting chilly.

"Keep walking, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade turns white, falls behind, stops. Sherlock has to turn around after all, with a swirl (how pleasant, to do this in his own coat; he'd been itching to take it out of the wardrobe, where it had been waiting, clean and sanitised, and smelling only slightly of mothballs).

"Oh do keep up, will you, I haven't all day." He flashes an easy smile, the one that's supposed to calm down the other person. He's been told he's rather good at this one.

Lestrade closes his mouth, and moves his feet.

They end up in a café, Lestrade leaning towards him over the table, talking low and quiet for some reason, staring at Sherlock with open fascination. He has connected a few dots, and is now asking about five of the sixteen Interpol cases closed in the last nine months. Sherlock smiles, curls his hands around his coffee cup and redirects the conversation.

"Three unsolved cases in a year," he says. "Have you learned nothing in watching my methods, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade grimaces, looks away. Shame, though there's no real reason for it. Lestrade is hardly a genius, but he's the least irritating of the New Scotland Yard, and not a complete moron on occasion.

"Sherlock-- Um--" he says. "You need to understand. It wasn't like this. The investigation--"

"Although I must admit you did display less of your usual idiocy in the Molesey murders."

The way Lestrade brightens up at that should be annoying, but it's not. He also has the decency to shut up and look pleased, which is good. His shoulders relax. Distracted now. Very good.

But not for long. Ah, hard to distract a good hound.

"That exposé, six months ago," Lestrade says. "Clearing your name, bringing Moriarty to light. That was Mycroft, wasn't it?"

Sherlock sips his coffee, and says nothing. Sixth page, didn't get picked up by half of the nation's press. Dead men tell no tales, apparently, and even if they do, they're not worth the attention of the general populace. Mycroft had said so. But Mycroft had had a debt to pay, and Kitty Riley had had a rude awakening coming.

Oh well, goodbye fame – and good riddance. Ancient history now, not worth cluttering the hard drive.

"You know, they never did find a body," says Lestrade. There's a careful pause, during which the Inspector is clearly wondering if it's even worth asking. It's not. "Are you going to tell me what happened to him?"

The look on his face is so hopeful Sherlock is tempted for a moment. He does respect Lestrade, and he almost wishes he could give him this. But now that there is no sniper scoping the Inspector out in the crowd, the answers are not within his pay grade.

"You've been fully reinstated," says Sherlock, setting down his cup. "Anything interesting going on?"

Lestrade looks at him in silence for a long moment. Then he gives up.

"Actually, now that you mention it, yeah." His face lights up. "What, you want to tag along, like the old times? For God's sakes, you're going to give Anderson a heart attack." He laughs to himself, but he's already standing up. He hasn't touched his coffee.

Sherlock stands up as well, and they are out and into the fading sunlight.

*

Anderson does not have a heart attack, but his mouth does not close the whole three minutes it takes Sherlock to go through the crime scene photos. The rest of the force looks similarly perplexed, and Sherlock revels in the visceral pleasure of this – being in the right place in the world again, at the centre of everything, in the moment of discovery, where the facts align and slot into place, and the solution presents itself even before the question is asked.

"Have you got a blood splatter expert?" he says.

Lestrade comes up closer to look over his shoulder. "Yes, why?"

"Fire them." Sherlock turns the key photo right side up again, points out the wall behind the dead woman's head. "This, here. Look. Do you see?"

Predictably, Lestrade doesn't see.

"This was no suicide," says Sherlock. "The blood on the wall. You said no witnesses. But someone was here, and they made a dent in the space. There's no blood here, see? There should be, the way it went all around here, and here. Someone was standing there, close by, ducking out of the way, but some of the blood ended up on them instead of the wall. So either you do have a witness, or this wasn't suicide. Are these all the pictures you've got? How about her wrists? No, never mind. Where is she?"

"Bart's morgue."

Sherlock hesitates. The he nods. "Let's go."

*

Molly had been shaking, quivering like a leaf when he told her what he needed her to do. For a moment, a single absurdly terrifying moment, he doubted she would be able to do anything at all. But when they wheeled him back in, she was quick like fire and her hands were steady like steel. Right to the morgue, bang the doors, off the stretcher and onto the slab, everyone drop the costumes and scatter. Harsh lights in his face. Clean off the paint, comb his hair. Drop his clothes, take pictures. No make-up. It had been cold outside, his skin was close to blue anyway.

Molly's hands. Somehow, through the weight of the last conversation with John, he remembered Molly's hands, gentle and soothing, helping him move into positions, guiding him through the snap of the flash.

She gives him a wide berth today. She can see him, of course, looks down at him from the gallery, mouth open briefly closes with a snap, and then she's motionless, a file clutched to her chest. He doesn't nod to her, barely turns round and acknowledges her presence with a glance, and she only looks at him, straight and unblinking. Then she turns away, and Lestrade asks the technician a question about the body, and they set to work.

*

When he gets back home, John is sitting on the steps of 221B. He does not have his bag. 

The night has fallen, and the streetlights make John's eyes look very pale. He is smiling, mouth closed, and Sherlock is relieved to find he understands this look; John knows something Sherlock doesn't. He will say it, but not just yet. Sherlock will have to work for it.

Sherlock stops a few steps away, puts his hands in his pockets.

"Lestrade texted me," John says, unnecessarily. 

Sherlock nods. They look at each other for a while. Then John stands up, dusts off his backside. 

"Right then. Come on."

He starts down the street. Sherlock stands in front of his door for a moment. Then he follows.

"Where are we going?"

"Like you don't know." John is walking briskly. No limp. Sherlock falls into step.

At the pub, John orders two beers and a bag of crisps. He doesn't ask Sherlock what he wants, and Sherlock does not express a preference. They wait.

"Good day?" says John, at length.

Sherlock nods. "Acceptable."

"Interesting case?"

"Murder disguised as suicide. Disgruntled relatives, the usual. Dull."

"Hm. So you're back in the saddle?"

Sherlock watches John's face.

"I've never been out. John--"

"No," says John. "You haven't, have you."

Their beer comes. John takes a long drink, sets the glass on the coaster.

"You said you were alone," he says, and Sherlock recognises the tone at once. He keeps his face neutral. Any expression at this moment would discourage John, who is about to say something that is important to him. So Sherlock keeps his face neutral and his mouth shut.

"You said alone protects you," John continues. "I remember you saying that. Protects you from what? I wondered, you see. I wondered about that a lot. Never got anywhere, of course, but it didn't stop me wondering. So today, I thought about that some more. Drink your beer."

Sherlock reaches for his glass, but doesn't lift it to his lips.

"Drink your beer, Sherlock," says John, and he smiles. The smile does not reach his eyes. Sherlock drinks his beer. It's good. Cloudy, malty, sour. He watches John drink, too. He watches John's mouth.

"That phone call," says John, "about Mrs Hudson being shot, that was obviously a lie. You needed me to go away, you needed time for something. I didn't see it clearly then, I only understood that you'd planned this, and I wanted to fucking kil--" His voice breaks without warning.

It's interesting to watch, Sherlock thinks. John's voice is there, and the next instant it's gone, and John is breathing in instead, hands curling around his glass.

"I wanted to fucking punch you," John says, after a while. "And then I couldn't, because you were dead."

Sherlock opens his mouth, but John raises a finger. "No. No. Shut up. Just shut up. You owe me this, all right? So sit and drink your beer and _listen to me._ "

Sherlock sits, drinks his beer and listens.

"You were dead, and I wasn't, and it made no fucking _sense_ ," John says. "That you would do this, that you would say what you said." He laughs, quiet and bitter. "But you said something else two days ago, too. You said it was _over_. Something was over, and you had to come."

Sherlock doesn't remember saying that. A vague feeling of the world swaying around him comes and goes; a memory of cotton wool. He drinks more beer.

"So you were doing something," John says, and there is a crease on his forehead, a mark of deep thought in ordinary humans. Sherlock usually finds this annoying, but not tonight. "Something that required you to be alone, because alone protects you. From what?" He looks at Sherlock intently, but this is not a question. John isn't done, so Sherlock keeps quiet. "And then, today, Lestrade texted me. So I called him. We do that, you, know? Phone each other, occasionally. Go for a pint. Like this." He motions between Sherlock and himself, then lays his hand flat on the table. "He told me about Interpol, Sherlock, about all those little cases over the past year. Top ten right off of the most wanted list: Poof! Gone. A couple of corrupt government officials, too. Impressive portfolio." John nods, like it is indeed impressive. Then he reaches for a crisp and pops it into his mouth. Sherlock's fingers twitch. He watches John's lips.

John leans forward, elbows on the table.

"Was there a sniper on me, that day?" His voice is low. "Was there one on Mrs Hudson, too? Or did he just wire the flat? He liked snipers and bombs, the self-important _dick_ , so I figured it must have been either of those. What else would have made you do what you did? What else would have made you think that you were better off by yourself, you bloody _idiot_?"

That does not appear to be an actual question, either, but John doesn't say anything else. He's expecting something. Sherlock waits a few moments, just to be sure that the order to shut up has been lifted, and then he nods.

"I thought you didn't give a fuck," he says. His voice sounds hollow inside his own skull.

John laughs. He breaks eye contact, pops another crisp into his mouth. "Yeah, you would, wouldn't you."

Sherlock clears his throat. "Three. There were three snipers."

John hums. Licks his lips; the crisp crumbs disappear. "Lestrade or Molly?"

"Lestrade."

John nods. "He didn't think she was anyone to you. Which is stupid, by the way."

"Oh?"

"Oh? Don't be dim, Sherlock, it's out of character. You had to have help. You couldn't have pulled off that jump without help. Lots of help. That guy who clocked me on the head? One of yours, wasn't he? The paramedics, the bystanders, everybody. You did that. You did all that just to make me believe. All that because you had this crazy idea that me mourning you for a fucking year and a half was somehow better than me helping you out."

"John--"

"No, shut up, you-- you selfish bastard. Eighteen months, eighteen bloody months, and you think you can just show up, unannounced, not a peep, not even a bloody postcard, and you make a mess of yourself, and a mess of my kitchen and then ask me to move back in with you. Like nothing happened! Who-- Seriously, Sherlock, who do you think I am?"

John is clutching the glass. Over half of the beer is gone; he should be more relaxed by now, but he isn't. He is getting louder by degrees. He doesn't notice, but Sherlock does. So do a few people around them, a couple at the bar, a young woman in a black dress angling for a hook-up--

Sherlock wrenches his eyes back, turns his glass in his hands. The alcohol hasn't even made a dent.

"It was the best option, John," he says. "And one out of not very many."

"Oh, and exactly how many were there? Did any of them involve warning your only friend what you were planning to do?"

"Only this one involved you not being dead."

He didn't mean to raise his voice. He really didn't. A few more patrons cast sideways glances at them, and John finally looks uncomfortable. In the back, the bartender is trying to decide if they'd had something else to drink before they came in here, since the state of their beverages does not point towards high enough level of inebriation. Finally, the bartender turns away.

"I did say sorry," says Sherlock.

"No." John smiles, tight. "No, you didn't."

 _I would have been dead if you were dead_ , Sherlock thinks. _Without you, there would have been no surviving_. He doesn't say it.

Sherlock swallows. "I am sorry," he says.

John scoffs, turns his face away. "Yeah. Stop the presses." He downs the rest of his beer, then stands up and walks out.

When Sherlock leaves the pub, he doesn't expect John to be standing outside on the curb, waiting. John doesn't turn around when Sherlock comes out. Sherlock comes up to him, clears his throat.

"That was--" he says to John's back. "That was, um, quite impressive, John."

John nods, and Sherlock is pleased that he understands. "Well, I had a lot of time to think about it, did I?" Then he turns about and starts walking, and Sherlock, forever attached to him by an invisible rope, follows.

"Tell me the rest of it," says John, as they walk.

Sherlock does.

*

He gets all the way up to, but not including, March and Santa Monica, and then they reach the flat. John is first up the steps, but he waits for Sherlock to open the door, although clearly he still has his own key. Mrs Hudson is already asleep, which is good, because Sherlock doesn't need any misplaced excitement right now. John isn't back; Sherlock is not fooled for even a minute that this is John agreeing to come back to live here. John is merely coming up the stairs, up and up to the sitting room, switching on a lamp (frowning briefly at the lack of rug, frowning more at everything else appearing exactly the same), and then going into the kitchen and filling the kettle for tea.

Sherlock toes off his shoes and sits in his armchair. He watches John stand and wait. The light in the kitchen is harsh against John's greying hair. The light in the sitting room is soft, John's armchair in near darkness, waiting for him, empty.

"Like a bloody mausoleum," says John. He is looking up at the cupboards. "She wanted to bin all this, you know? Or give it away, but then Mycroft came in with a cheque and she had to put it all back. Gave me the willies." He shudders. "People experience grief in different ways, but this is-- This was just a tad too much, Sherlock." He chuckles. "I should have known. I should have bloody known."

Sherlock has nothing to say to that. He steeples his fingers under his chin, waits motionless for John to be done. The kettle boils. John pours the water, switches off the kitchen light, and brings the cups into the sitting room. He sets one down next to Sherlock. Then he toes off his shoes and settles down in his chair. Sherlock breathes out, slowly, and watches him, watches John's bare feet on the bare floorboards.

"So what happened to the rug?" John says.

"Someone was killed here," says Sherlock, picking up the tea.

John's eyebrows go up. "By you?"

It surprises Sherlock, how much it hurts, that John did not hesitate to assume. He swallows. The tea burns his palate. "No," he says. "I wasn't here. They didn't know. If they did, they'd have been looking for me in Cairo."

John nods, like he understands. He blows on his tea, sips it slowly, looking straight at Sherlock.

"But you did kill somebody," he says. "The other night." His voice is level. John isn't assuming now.

Sherlock's hands begin to tremble. It comes suddenly, and without warning, from deep within his body, snakes in the tar, uncoiling and lashing out with their lazy tails. He puts down the tea, steeples his fingers again, points pressing against points, calm down, breathe. _Breathe._

"Yes," he says. He doesn't have the strength for anything else.

John nods again, and it's maddening, this – John understanding, really _understanding_ what it is like. Sherlock did not expect to be angry at John for being able to relate.

"How did it feel?" says John. Quiet. He is holding his tea cup with a hand so steady Sherlock envies it with all his being. He feels sweat break out on the back of his neck. Delayed reaction. It's coming back now, as it well should be, floating up from where he had pushed it down in his brain; pouring in through every orifice, flooding his mind, making him _pay_.

John sips his tea. Maddening, this. Utterly hateful.

"Did that turn you on, too?" asks John, and this – _this_ is where it becomes too much.

"Oh, for God's sake!" The cup splinters against the fireplace with a crack. Hot tea droplets land on bare skin of Sherlock's feet.

Sherlock finds himself standing up, breathing hard. John has not even flinched.

For a minute, they merely stare at each other, and then Sherlock sits down again. There's white noise in his ears. He feels like he has been drowned. 

John sips his tea, looking vaguely amused.

This is my domain, thinks Sherlock, viciously. This is my facial expression. _Stop stealing from me_. He fists his hands in the armrests.

"I killed someone for you, the night after we met," says John quietly. "Do you remember that?"

Sherlock is aware that he can't control what shows on his face anymore. Confusion? Guilt? Disdain? He feels his mouth curl downwards, but John's face doesn't change. 

"Do you want to know how that felt?" asks John.

"Stop it," says Sherlock. His voice is shot. "Stop it, John. Please."

"Why?" Steady, steady hands. Genuine smile. Who is this? This isn't John, can't be John. John would never do this, never taunt him like this. Who is pulling the strings? Is there someone pulling the strings?

Sherlock's eyes go to the desk. Moran's file is still lying there, untouched. It's a new thing in the flat, he did not have to fix it. He has carefully worked around it all day.

"Sherlock," says John. "Look at me." Sherlock's head snaps back, like his rope has been yanked. John's eyes are calm, transparent in the low light. He has put down his cup. His bare feet are planted flat on the floor.

"Keep looking at me," says John. "Good." He smiles again. His right hand curls into a fist, then relaxes. Sherlock doesn't know what that means.

"Good," repeats John, and wets his lower lip. "Now come here."

Sherlock doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to think. The snakes are coiling, twisting low in his belly.

"John--" he says. His voice sounds muffled, like he's talking from somewhere very far away.

"Come here, Sherlock," says John.

Sherlock stands up.

"No," says John. His voice is perfectly calm. "On your knees."

It hits Sherlock straight in the gut. A flush comes up to his face. The sweat from the back of his neck is trickling down between his shoulder blades. It itches.

Slowly, very slowly, he sinks to the floor. John's eyes follow him down. John's hands don't move. His bare feet are now closer. Sherlock finds himself moving forward, shuffling over on the floorboards. He won't descend to the indignity of crawling. But he _could._

"Good," says John, very softly. Very close now. Sherlock can smell him. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he leaves them hanging by his sides, and waits.

John sits there for a while, doing nothing, just looking, and Sherlock has the sinking feeling that he's done something wrong. But no, _knees_ , that was clear. That could not have been clearer if John had drawn him a picture.

"Right," says John, at length. "Very good." He stands up, and Sherlock has to lean back a little. John is not very tall, but he is tall enough that standing up he is now at exactly the right height for what they're about to do.

Sherlock realises his mind has gone a little bit funny. He is vaguely aware he might not be in full control of his faculties. He is not drunk, far from it. Neither is John. This was all planned, premeditated. John sought him out tonight so that they could do this. Makes no sense. Makes no sense at all, John has never indicated anything like this, nothing whatsoever. Once, a while back, but that was clearly a misunderstanding, they didn't know each other, couldn't choose the right words--

"So?" says John, expectantly, and Sherlock looks up at him. John's expression is gentle, his eyes calm. "You know what to do. Off you go."

Sherlock looks back down, stares at John's belt buckle, gleaming in the lamplight, right in front of his face. His hands come up slowly, and his fingers learn to cooperate with his brain again. It's difficult. He pulls John's belt out of the loops.

It is a slow, tender unveiling, full of fascinating new details. John is not aware of this – and he does not need to know – but Sherlock has never done this before. The texture of metal and leather under his fingertips is not a new sensation, and neither is the scratch of denim, but the motion of the zipper – down, down over the cotton – that is new, on someone else, and from this viewpoint. The smell now, too, closer, sharp and heady; the flesh covered, then revealed through the slit in the fabric designed to ease urination; Sherlock's fingers now have enough dexterity to avoid the scrape of nails against soft skin over tumescent tissue. Careful, careful.

John's fingertips touch the side of his jaw. Find a pressure point. Sherlock's mouth falls open, and then John is suddenly and alarmingly _inside_ , and Sherlock does not have enough saliva for this. He shields his teeth, he knows the theory, and he closes his eyes because they hurt, too close to focus. His hands go up, brace themselves against John's hips (not pushing; he will _not_ push away), and John's hands come up too, slide and scrape and then fist into Sherlock's hair (and Sherlock is fiercely glad he'd let it grow back out, because it is very convenient, so very convenient for this).

John's hips start moving, back and forth, slowly, shallowly, and then faster, deeper, and this is impossible, Sherlock realises, because he can't breathe; the texture is sublime, the taste is astounding, but how do people do this if they cannot breathe, it must not last very long--

"Keep it open," says John. "Yes, that's good. You're doing great." And Sherlock feels ridiculously proud.

In the end, he does choke, because it lasts forever, and breathing is boring, but also required. John lets up, if only a little, rests himself against Sherlock's open mouth while Sherlock breathes and chokes, and breathes and chokes, and blinks, his throat closing up, acid straining upwards from his stomach, tears stinging his eyes. John holds him through it, hands in Sherlock's hair, left thumb tracing the edge of Sherlock's earlobe. And when Sherlock is able to breathe again, John hooks his other thumb over Sherlock's lower lip, pressing down on his teeth, and he's inside again, slick and hot and suffocating. 

And this is good, Sherlock thinks, this is good, this is right. He closes his eyes, and closes his mouth around the flesh inside it, flattens his tongue under, and tries to suck, just a little, just as an experiment, and John's fingers scrape his scalp, the back of his neck, and John says, "Fuck, Sherlock--" and comes in his mouth.

*

In the morning, Sherlock examines his body in the bathroom mirror.

All his bones are in the right places, his skin stretched over them and pale as it's always been. The old scars and new bruises add their texture and colour (always interesting how those turn out; similar injuries never bloom in quite the same way). Pain flickers softly, invisible inside the flesh, faint tremors of muscle showing where the epicentres are (ribs, side, jaw). His mouth is the same shape as it's always been, his teeth all present and accounted for, his throat pale and unbruised. 

Nothing has changed.

He washed the taste out of his mouth last evening, brushed with his own toothpaste, with his own toothbrush, over his own sink. He relieved himself, before that, and took a shower. Walked around the flat wearing his dressing gown over nothing. Later, in bed, he brought himself quickly and efficiently to orgasm, cleaned off, and fell asleep like a rock.

He looks at the two white pills on the sink. He brought them in here from the sitting room, where they'd been left on the coffee table next to the sofa – sitting there next to the empty fruit dish like payment for services rendered.

Sherlock laughs. He's apparently regained enough wits to be self-critical again.

He looks back at his face in the mirror. Drags one fingertip across his lower lip. John pressed his thumb here, between the second bicuspid and the first molar. Pushed down, here. Sherlock lets his mouth fall open, then closes his lips around his own finger.

When John was done, he folded over Sherlock, hands on Sherlock's shoulders, and they stayed like that for a minute, Sherlock resting his forehead against the side of John's stomach, breathing open-mouthed into the fabric of John's shirt. Sherlock's knees were beginning to hurt. The taste in his mouth was-- new. Brilliant and vile, terrifying and sweet – it could go either way, he couldn't decide just yet. Needed more data. Needed more-- material for experimentation.

"Oh, God," John murmured into his hair. "Sherlock. You-- And without your hands-- Oh, God, you."

"I will use my hands," Sherlock said. The fabric of John's shirt was soft against his lips. "Next time, John. I promise."

John keened, and squeezed his shoulder, and then unfolded carefully over him, straightened up and stepped away. Sherlock swayed forward, caught himself with one hand on the floorboards. Wiped his mouth with his other hand, watched the thin white line stretch and break in the air between his lips and his knuckles. John made another sound, like a sob, and stepped away further. He was standing by the side of the chair now; not about to sit, not about to stay. Sherlock heard the swish of the zipper, the clinking of the belt. He sat down on his haunches, breathed slowly in and out, and looked at the floor, at John's bare feet next to the chair.

He stayed like that for a little while. Background threads, foreground threads whirred up and set to work.

John's hand on his shoulder (neutral touch) snapped him back to the input buffer. John was lowering himself to the floor in front of Sherlock, and his hand was sliding down, caressing Sherlock's shoulder, collarbone, trailing down his chest to--

Sherlock recoiled, slapped the hand away and slid, skittered backwards on the floor until his back hit the edge of his own armchair.

"No," he said. He didn't want that. Not right now. He wasn't _done_. Couldn't John _see_? "No. This." He waved his hand between his mouth and John's body, trying to convey the meaning. "Just-- This." He didn't want the oxytocin overload, not just yet, not when he wasn't done memorising this. Unfiltered, raw, this was the best data. He could not afford for this to be clouded by his own pleasure, by his own release. He needed this, he needed to remember John exactly like this.

"Sherlock," John said. He looked puzzled, with that beautiful puzzlement mixed with kindness that John wore on his face when Sherlock had done something rather stupid, by societal norms, or missed something irrelevant that somehow mattered to John. "Sherlock, I--"

"I said no." Sherlock twisted his mouth. John would get the picture. _Stay away from me._

John bit his lip, stood up. Nodded, like he understood. Good. Good. Sherlock stretched his legs, safe, leaned back against his chair, and closed his eyes.

His mouth tasted like John, and it was dizzying. He licked his lips.

"Would you, um," said John, from far away. "Would you like some water?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Yes," he said. "Thank you."

John brought him water, held it in front of Sherlock's face until Sherlock blinked his eyes open and took it. Watched Sherlock drink down the entire glass, then took it back and carried it over to the sink. He had put on his shoes, and turned the light back on in the kitchen. The glare hurt Sherlock's eyes, so Sherlock closed them again.

By the time Sherlock regained awareness, the streetlights were casting crooked rectangles of light onto the walls of the sitting room, and his brain was silent. The light in the kitchen was off again. So were all the lamps in the room. John, the smart, smart, brilliant John, had left him to process in darkness.

Now, in the clear light of the morning, in the bathroom, Sherlock picks up the pills, crushes them between his teeth. He drinks the tap water from his curled hand. Then he goes to change into a comfortable suit, and goes out to resume his life.


	4. Chapter 4

The moment Sherlock realised the exact nature of his affliction, he went back to his hotel room on the fourteenth floor, pulled the curtains closed and resolved to get so far out of his mind that he would either a) outrun the affliction successfully or b) die and therefore forget all about it. Unfortunately for all involved, Mycroft's people had been in the room earlier in the day, and, while there was a new pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a jacket laid out for him on the bed, along with an ID and a set of credit cards, Sherlock was certain there was no point in trying to find his secret stash. Mycroft had insisted on him being clean at all times, and while he did intellectually comprehend Sherlock's need to overwrite the absolute boredom of waiting, the only concessions he would make were for an occasional pack of cigarettes.

Until then, Sherlock had not contemplated self-stimulation as a means to get his mind to an acceptable level of calm. It would have been at best temporary, and the results were unpredictable, now that he knew what he really wanted.

He lay on the bed and tried it anyway.

The relief was indeed temporary. And his body couldn't even do it twice in a row. 

Useless.

*

There's a body in the freezer and Sherlock's breath is frosting over his eyelashes, making his eyelids stick together when he blinks.

It's an industrial walk-in freezer, and the air is minus twenty three degrees. The shelves are lined with frozen food items. The body has been here for six days. The restaurant supplier claims to have been away for a boat cruise, but he is lying. He has a mistress in Horsham, and another in Stockbridge, possibly further, but the lie is harmless. Irrelevant. What is relevant is that there are no signs of struggle, zero blood, and the death was not from hypothermia. There are numerous options on the table, but Sherlock needs more data before drawing conclusions.

Anderson is not on forensics. It's someone Sherlock doesn't know, and therefore has no qualms with sending about on errands. About the only thing he does not ask for is coffee. (It is inadvisable to consume food or beverages while in a walk-in freezer. Likewise inadvisable to be in one by yourself.)

"Anything?" Lestrade asks, coming up to stand next to Sherlock. He has the air of a man who is longing to call it a day, and it's barely ten in the morning. "We still don't have ID."

Sherlock purses his lips. His gloves are frozen, the tips of the fingers cold against his mouth.

"A bit," he says. "Student. Roehampton. Affluent, but not from old money. Dancer. Aspiring writer. Quite good in both. Smart. Single. Killed for what she knew and not for what she had. Impossible to tell what without looking at her relatives, although I would not exclude classmates. Contact the university, see who has not shown up for the dance class. If just her, interview the family. You could cross-check who had connections with the restaurant, or the supplier. In any case, the murderer is most likely out of the country by now."

Lestrade snorts. "God knows I'll never get used to this. Oi, Jackson!" He steps out of the freezer, sends his sidekicks off checking things. Then he comes back and stands shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock. They look down at the body.

After a while, Lestrade says. "So tell me."

Sherlock exhales slowly.

"Her shoes," he says. "They're good quality, but several years old. And her clothes and well-made but not new, either. Very well cared-for, though. She likes quality items, but she won't waste money to replace them when the old ones are still fine. Her jewellery is new, and expensive, so she hasn't fallen on hard times. Ergo: pragmatic upbringing, new money.

"She has good muscle definition, could be sports, but there are no marks on her hands and her muscles too small for a swimmer, too sculpted for a runner. Still many options at this point, but look at her ankles: injuries, repetitive strain, very specific – dancer it is.

"Writer, too, going by the pen and notes in the handbag. Random observations, out of context, but the sentence construction is sound, and the vocabulary is decent. Not poetry - or at least not very good poetry. Notes. Writes down her ideas during the day, so she doesn't forget. A well-known technique. Condoms in the bag - single, and obviously smart - or hopeful, at any rate. Library card in the side pocket, University of Roehampton. I'm surprised your people haven't found that one - or, well, I'm not really surprised. 

"The killer removed her wallet, so no ID, but they did not look through the purse well enough. All jewellery still present, so not a robbery. No signs of struggle, so she either knew her attacker, or it was an accident. But if accident, then why hide the body? 

"Now, the freezer, the freezer is interesting. It doesn't destroy evidence, it doesn't really hide anything. What it did is provide time. The killer expected the body to be found, but they also knew the shop owner would be gone for a few days – the date's posted right outside the door – so the freezer's convenient. Low risk, too. And no noxious smells for a week – that's definitely a bonus. Therefore, killer is out of the country, but the group from which they disappeared is most likely family or friends."

He takes a breath, steeples the gloved pieces of ice underneath his chin. There is always relief, after this, like a pressure valve released, unimportant pieces of transitory knowledge expelled, and only conclusions remain.

John had disturbed it, Sherlock realises, with his easy praise, his unfiltered amazement at Sherlock's brilliance; thrown Sherlock's thoughts into disarray, only to let them assemble, afterwards, different. Sherlock liked the new order. Without it, his mind feels too sterile, too clean after he's done.

Lestrade is a faithful audience, but he has different filters through which he looks at the body in front of them; different obligations to fulfil. Sherlock is aware of this, and he does not begrudge the Inspector his lack of proper expressions of awe.

"I'll get the move on the airports, see who's left for Bermuda," says Lestrade. "Come on, I'm freezing my bollocks off in here."

The air outside is so warm it feels like a different planet. Sherlock unwinds his scarf, paradoxically, to warm up. He takes off his gloves, shoves them into his pocket.

Someone – the forensics assistant – presses a Styrofoam cup into his hand. Coffee. Sherlock takes it, and stares at it for a moment, uncomprehending. 

There is a soft huff of laughter. Sherlock looks up with a frown. Lestrade is also holding a cup. He is smiling.

"The boys took bets this morning," he says. "Trying to guess how you take it." He nods towards Sherlock's cup. "I arbitered. Black, two sugars. Jackson won."

Sherlock stares at the cup again, and feels something warming in his stomach, something dangerously warmer than the warm summer air.

He rewinds the day. He got looks when he came down to the Yard, but he always has. Were they different looks? How were they different? Lestrade invited him into his police car, and nobody said a word. They let him in on the scene without question. And nobody has called him a freak.

Lestrade sips his coffee. He is still smiling. It's unnerving. 

"Good to have you back, Sherlock," he says.

*

On his way out, Sherlock takes brief custody of Lestrade's phone. Ostensibly to send a text, covertly to look up John's new phone number. He could ask Mycroft, of course, but that would be defeating the purpose. They are back to The Truce, and the pool of favours with no strings attached has shown bottom.

The manila folders are still on his desk at his flat.

Sherlock gets a cab, sends the cabbie on a round tour through London. He needs to think, and he likes to think with his city surrounding him comfortably on all sides. Mycroft's credit card can pay for the fare.

Choosing the optimal course of action requires the knowledge of John's motivation. Facts are there, plain to see, but the divergence between the both of them is potentially greater than Sherlock knows, and therein lies the rub – a misstep could cost him… what, exactly? Rewind. What it is that they have? A tryst? A relationship? A retaliation? Retaliation looks likely, given the position of the dominant partner, the unequivocal tools of control: voice, hands, presence of clothing. John's behaviour, after, was more characteristic of John-– Ah, of course: the original intent changed, eclipsed by sexual release. Dangerous, the chemistry, very destructive. Clouds the purity of motives, therefore clouds deduction. Sherlock needs more facts.

He takes out his phone. Types in John's new number from memory.

Effective communication requires at least partial knowledge of intent, if only to clarify misunderstandings.

_I'm not hungry. Let's have dinner._

Witty, but hardly appropriate. Could be misconstrued as sarcasm. Or invite unwanted association. No.

_Come by Baker Street tonight. We can try this again._

Not enough specifics. Could be read as a suggestion to change the dynamics.

Sherlock likes the dynamics just fine.

(Is this what Irene had in mind? Did she see it? Was she spot-on the very first time they met?)

Sherlock closes his eyes. He remembers the touch of the whip against his lips. The touch of John's thumb sliding into his mouth, pressing down. John's hand sliding down his chest, what John said--

He blinks, forces himself to look outside, at the real, familiar world: the buildings, the streets, the cars. He notes the location, calculates the distance from here to the clinic, the hospital, Baker Street. John's house.

He analyses each location in turn.

Baker Street, obvious. Conducive to more experiments. The old surroundings with most items intact, but for the lack of rug on the floor, by now likely associated in John's mind with Sherlock on his knees. Useful association, this – takes advantage of the chemistry, and bypasses John's frontal lobe to go straight to his instincts.

Harder to get John back in there – a straightforward request might not work. Or have the circumstances changed, since the last time he asked?

_Your presence at 221B urgently required. Need more data to compare how you taste today with how you tasted last night._

Too straightforward. The truth, but could be read as too impersonal or of purely scientific intent. 

Sherlock does not have purely scientific intent.

Not Baker Street, then, not yet.

The clinic. Been there, done that, got the stitches. Medical fetish might be on the books, but likely too close to John's line of work. And while John does enjoy his work, if only because it assures him of his productivity in society, this is not the best association to have, likely won't even get him aroused.

Not the clinic.

The hospital, ah. Even without being able to emotionally relate, Sherlock understands that this would be treading the line between fine and not fine. Cheating on one's spouse (work does not count; work is unforgiving, and it gets done no matter what), cheating is better digestible when done in secret, and not in full view of one's significant other, even if they are not conscious enough to appreciate the difference.

It sends a thrill down his spine, though. Undoubtedly has to do with the challenge of public or semi-public sex, and less with the dubious challenge of having John cheating on someone who is not there anymore.

The hospital is out. For now.

That leaves John's flat. _Mary's flat_. Or whoever pays the damn rent. Parents probably chip in; John probably protests.

Sherlock shudders. He loathes that flat. John lives there, and lives a life that is separate from Sherlock – a life in which Sherlock is dead and not coming back. John knows now, of course, that it's all fake, but that life has coalesced around him none the less, made itself real in John's brain.

Sherlock has shaken him out of it some, but not enough for John to come back to where he belongs.

Well, then. Sherlock will have to shake it out of John some more.

He gives the cabbie directions, then lies back and takes a nap. It's going to be a while before they circle back round. 

He doesn't send the text.

*

John finds him waiting on the steps to the loathsome flat. It has gotten dark, darker than Sherlock anticipated, and far later. John has been to the clinic today (his hair, his shirt, his shoes) and after the clinic, he went to the hospital. Sat there for many hours, reading aloud (his stance, his hands, his mouth). Why did he stay so long? Did he have to put himself back together, the way Sherlock has been putting himself back together all day?

God, his brain is cotton. He stood in that freezer, looked at the body on the floor, and had to wrench his brain from thoughts of erect male anatomy. Not relevant in the slightest. Distracting.

Later, he drank the coffee, touched his mouth to the cup and had to close his eyes at the feeling of liquid, the feeling of _anything_ passing between his lips.

It was irrational.

John, on the other hand, looks completely composed. He stands at the foot of the stairs, posture slightly skewed (he has his bag with him), but otherwise relaxed. His expression is open, eyes gentle, and he is smiling slightly, like there is something amusing about Sherlock sitting on the steps to his flat and not breaking in, the way he should.

Sherlock clears his throat. "I pulled my stitches again," he says. "I need you to look at them."

It's such a staggeringly blatant lie that Sherlock expects John to laugh outright. But John only ducks his head, hiding the smile in his blue jacket. Then he starts up the steps, jingling the keys in his pocket.

"Come on," he says, stepping around Sherlock and going to open the door.

Once inside, John drops the bag, they both take off their shoes, John makes a beeline for tea and Sherlock hangs his coat in the hallway and goes to the living room. He switches on the standing lamp in the corner, looks around. Not a bad place for this, except there's a coffee table in the way of unprotected shins and too many breakable accessories on the furniture. Sherlock takes off his suit jacket, hangs it over the arm of the sofa, and places himself strategically in the middle of the seat. He moves the coffee table a few inches away with his foot, then sits back and waits.

The afternoon had been a new experience. He had the cab drop him off at the end of the street, so he could walk for a bit before sitting and waiting. He had expected to wait. Good things coming or not, it felt like the correct thing to do. And it was new because he'd never before waited for a person solely for the purpose of being in their presence – usually there had been a murder, or at least a puzzle, or he had wanted something from the morgue. Without that, the wait was unnaturally long – Sherlock was bored out of his skull within fifteen minutes. Thank God for wireless technology and a good resolution screen – brushing up on the classification of neurological disorders had been long overdue.

"Here." John sets a steaming cup in front of him, and goes to sit in the armchair. He settles down with his own cup. "So we're doing it like this, then."

"Like what?"

John gestures between them. "You. Me. This. Dropping in on each other under false pretences. Well, it is amusing, I suppose."

"Amusing?"

"Yep." John smiles. "If one needs entertainment. Can't be just murders in freezers all day long. Reckon it gets boring."

Lestrade's getting chatty. Sherlock should have checked the DI's text messages when he had the chance. Valuable insight might have been gleaned from them. Too late, now. Some other time.

"John," he says. "I'm not here for--" Astonishingly, his hands are starting to shake. He threads his fingers together, elbows at his sides. Attempts honesty. "This is-- unexpected. For me. I haven't--" He stops. Honesty is hard.

John drums his fingers on the armrest. "Haven't what? Planned this? Laid it down to the smallest detail? You are kidding me, right? Sherlock Holmes, master of the universe, one step ahead of everybody, rather die before admitting he's wrong, and you haven't planned any of this?"

"John--"

"Shut up. Just shut up, all right? You're unbelievable. Jesus." John looks away, breathes through his nose, mouth pressed thin. He rubs his face, runs one hand through his hair. "All right, then. All right." He looks back to Sherlock. Relaxes his hands. His voice is low and calm when he speaks again. "You obviously didn't come here to talk. So do us both a favour, keep your mouth shut and strip."

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment. Exhales slowly. This – _John_ , like this – is truly an unexpected delight. Sherlock didn't plan that far ahead, how could he? He has no data. He's moving on the fringes of understanding. 

It's electrifying.

He begins to unbutton his cuffs.

"You keep silencing me," he says.

John juts his chin. "Well, you do talk rather a lot."

"You like my voice." Done with the cuffs, Sherlock starts on the collar. One button is already undone. John's eyes follow his fingers.

"Yes." John swallows. "But not now. Later. I might want to hear it later."

John is watching Sherlock's fingers, so Sherlock watches John's face. He slows down, takes his time with the buttons; slides fingertips over skin to gauge John's reaction. John's eyes cloud over, and he wets his lips, looks up--

Only a split second before the clouded look goes away, but it's enough; Sherlock sees everything.

Underneath all the calm, underneath all the control, John is terrified. He has taken the gamble, is taking the gamble Sherlock himself hadn't had the courage to take. The need in his eyes, in the slant of his mouth, oh god, it's unmistakable. But so is the fear. John has something to lose – therefore he thinks he _has_ something, it hasn't already been lost; eighteen months had not erased it. And it's precious to John – precious enough for John to be terrified at the prospect of losing it, but not terrified enough to forgo the risk of getting something better.

In John's mind, _this_ is better.

Exhilarating.

Sherlock slides the shirt off his shoulders, and stands up to undo his trousers. He shucks them down with his socks, folds them up and sets them on the arm of the sofa next to his suit jacket, along with his shirt. He hesitates, bites his lip, avoids looking at John's face, and then slides down his pants and kicks them under the coffee table.

He is not erect. It will take him a while. His body is not used to this, not in this context.

He straightens, fixes his gaze on the wall over John's shoulder, and keeps his expression neutral. John's face remains in the corner of his vision. Sherlock lets his hands fall to his sides, makes a conscious effort to relax them.

He is now displayed, exposed. The intention, the trust should be plain enough to see, even for John.

John continues to sit in the chair. He has put down his tea, and looks Sherlock up and down. Not lingering on anything in particular; an equal opportunity assessment. Ah, so this is not new. More data. Good. Sherlock likes data.

John clears his throat.

"Turn round." His voice is rough.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Would you like me to dance, too? Wave my arms? I'm not a puppet, John."

"Fine. Then say no."

Sherlock's insides burn.

Slowly, he raises his arms away from his body, and turns round in a circle.

When he turns back, John is standing up from the chair. He walks around the coffee table, and comes up to Sherlock, not crowding him, but standing very close. He is so much shorter. It feels ridiculous to be frozen in place by nothing but John's voice. By the expression of his will. The invisible rope.

We should kiss now, Sherlock thinks. These things, at some point they involve kissing. 

Sherlock thinks he should like that to happen very soon.

But John doesn't kiss him, doesn't even touch. He merely looks at Sherlock's body, examines him from a different angle, up close. Injuries, remembers Sherlock. John is looking at the injuries. They are healing well. The stitches on his thigh are not torn, not even close; in fact, they'll be ready to remove very soon. The pain in Sherlock's ribs is still there, low and inconvenient, but Sherlock has learned to live with it – his brain has tuned it out for most of the day. 

John tilts his head to the side. Contemplative. He still hasn't touched Sherlock.

"Lie down," he says quietly. "On your back, please."

Sherlock looks him straight in the eye. He wets his lips (a tug at the rope), and John's eyes go to them in an instant.

"What are you going to do?" Sherlock says.

John huffs out a laugh. "Wouldn't _you_ like to know."

Sherlock looks down at John for another long moment, but he can't see anything else. He steps away and lies down on the sofa, on his back as instructed, head propped up against the armrest, right arm hanging down the side, fingertips touching the floor. The microfiber cushions are soft against his bare skin. 

"You still have your clothes on," he says after he's settled.

"Yep," says John. He sits on the coffee table, close to Sherlock's middle. One of his kneecaps clicks.

"It's an imbalance you should address," Sherlock says.

John smiles. "Why? You like to be naked. You sleep naked all the time."

And then he lays his hand on Sherlock's abdomen and Sherlock's entire body jerks.

John stills, fingers resting flat on Sherlock's skin. He is not pressing. Merely relying on gravity.

"All right?" he says.

Sherlock nods. Speaking has become difficult. He looks at the ceiling instead.

John nods too, and then moves his hand. Warm, dry, slipping, sliding, the touch travels to well-known places first – a bruise here, a bandaged scrape there. Up Sherlock's chest, and down the side of his arm. Still feeling for injuries. Down his hip now and to the crease at the top of his thigh, at the edges of the stitched wound. 

"How's this feel, then?"

Sherlock looks hard at the ceiling.

"Good," he says. His voice is going by way of the dodo. This is not a doctor's touch.

"Right," says John. "Good." Then he slides his hand through Sherlock's pubic hair and Sherlock shuts his eyes.

John's hand on him feels different than Sherlock's own. It's a sensation to be savoured, another person's touch on his skin like this. John touches differently than Sherlock would, finds different places to expose, uses different pressure. Exactly how different? It's hard to tell. Sherlock grimaces into the dark under his eyelids. He should look, he really should, but he needs to take it one step at the time; overload is not good for the mind.

John's hand is warm, and then it's slick, and Sherlock realises John has switched hands, knuckles of the left now grazing against Sherlock's stomach, and John has curled his fist around Sherlock, he's moving it up and down, up and down. Pressure builds slowly, deliciously in Sherlock's abdomen. His mouth has fallen open, and he might be making noise. No matter.

Another touch, the right hand, under his left knee; a gentle pressure. Up. Sherlock obediently lifts and bends his leg, foot flat on the seat. John's hand scrapes and slides on the underside of his thigh, slides between flesh and seat, nudges rough against sweaty skin.

"John--" Sherlock whispers.

"Quiet."

 _What if I said no?_ Sherlock thinks desperately. _Can I say no right now?_

John's fist works him hard and tight. John's right hand explores in dry, teasing touches, then leaves and comes back wet. Hard fingers are sliding down again, rubbing, pressing, a scrape of nail, and then a single fingertip, pushing inside--

Sherlock comes, breathless and choking, and the force of it curls his body up and around John's still working fist. He opens his eyes to see himself coming, the old and familiar sight through utterly new and unfamiliar grip. John's thumb is rubbing slowly, maddeningly, over his slit.

Sherlock grips John's wrist and stills his hand. He is panting. John is sitting at the edge of the coffee table, bent over him. John's other hand is still pressed inside him, the single fingertip within a bright circle of pressure.

"Out," says Sherlock. He has trouble focusing on John's face. John withdraws his finger, and it hurts, very briefly. Sherlock lets go of John's wrist and falls back onto the sofa. He throws his arm over his eyes.

Time passes. Threads start up and finish. It's shorter this time, the refractory period of his mind; he doesn't lose hours, just minutes. He registers John's footsteps receding, then coming back. Warm, wet touch against his cooling skin – John is cleaning him up; how convenient. Sherlock resumes cataloguing.

Eventually, a belt buckle clinks in the darkness. Sherlock moves his arm out of the way, squints in the lamplight.

"John?"

John has moved away, and is now reclining in a chair, legs open. He's drawn himself out and is moving his fist up and down. It's mesmerising.

"John," Sherlock says. He swallows. "I can--"

John chuckles, a small, breathless laugh. "Yes. Yes, I know."

Sherlock makes a move to rise, but John raises his free hand, fingers splayed. "No. No. Stay like that. God, just stay like that. I want to see you."

Sherlock watches John's fist. It hasn't stopped moving. He wets his lips. "Are you sure?"

John nods, so Sherlock lies back down, and lets himself be looked at.

John comes minutes later with a sound he's clearly trying to suppress. Sherlock wants to tell him not to; he wants to hear John make this sound, he wants to hear John make other sounds, too. Later, he thinks, later he will see exactly what other sounds John can make – it curls in his stomach like dread, the sudden awareness of his own desires; Sherlock pushes the dread down – later, later he will see everything. Later. They have time.

*

The phone buzzes and Sherlock jerks awake from a dreamless pit. He blinks into the darkness. Red numbers of the alarm clock stare at him from the bedside table. It's three in the morning. The bed in John's guest bedroom is not very comfortable, but Sherlock has fallen asleep like a stone; he doesn't even remember when.

Lestrade's voice is breathless and raspy. Three o'clock is not a good time for the inspector.

"Hostage situation. Will you come?"

Sherlock frowns at the phone. "That's not really--"

"What you do, yes. I know. But the arsehole talks in some sort of code. None of our guys can figure it out, and I got the best guys."

Lestrade emphasises the _best guys_ , like he knows exactly what that does to Sherlock. Which he probably does. Conniving bastards, all.

Sherlock gets out of bed.

His clothes are still in the living room. He goes down the stairs naked (why yes, he does like sleeping with no clothes on; John is very observant; obviously it's because he's had a great teacher). He picks up his pants from the floor and the rest of it from the arm of the sofa, dresses quickly.

Not quickly enough.

John comes down the stairs in grey pyjamas and a grey dressing gown. He stands in the doorway, rubbing at his eyes. "What's going on?"

His voice is lovely. It's an odd thought, and it comes unbidden to Sherlock's mind, but yes: John sounds lovely when he's been interrupted in sleep.

"Nothing," Sherlock says. "I'm going out."

"I heard your phone," says John. "Did something happen?"

Sherlock hesitates. The bank is not very far away. He'll get a cab, be there in fifteen minutes. He'll decipher whatever needs deciphering, and he could be home before morning.

John waits for him to speak, and when that doesn't happen, he nods. "I'm coming with you."

Sherlock is torn between elation and dread, because John coming along is pure fireworks, but Sherlock really does not want to come back here after. John's hands, God, John's hands, but he loathes the house all the same.

"Not worth it," Sherlock says. "I'll look at some code, you'll stand around. Boring."

"Boring's good," John says. "I'm coming with you."

John comes with him. It is a boring hostage situation, and a boring lunatic speaking in riddles, and it's an hour before Sherlock learns enough to figure out what the man is saying, and another half an hour of getting exactly nowhere, until Sherlock has a brilliant idea.

The brilliant idea leads to the hostage situation now including John and himself, inside the bank, where Sherlock can get a good look at the lunatic and thus get more data, which leads to Sherlock being amazing and the lunatic being annoyed, which leads to one of the people at the bank recognising Sherlock and raising a completely unnecessary ruckus, which ends up being even more interesting – the unnecessarily observant woman gets shot, John gets spattered with blood, and Sherlock gets a boot in the ribs (and oh God, the pain is so cleansing it whites out everything for at least a full minute).

For the next hour, John gets to try to stop the woman bleeding to death while simultaneously trying to calm everyone down so that no one else gets shot, and Sherlock gets a beautiful, beautiful hour of torture interspersed with quite a generous amount of talking, which gives him the last few clues to what the not-so-boring-anymore lunatic wants.

In the end, it doesn't matter. Sherlock has been trying to get the man to step into the line of sight, and when he finally does, the sniper gets him in one. It's an admirable shot. Sherlock would congratulate Lestrade on at last hiring someone half competent at this, hadn't it taken them so fucking long.

By the time they stumble out of the cab and into 221B, it's well past eight in the morning. John's hands have been wiped clean by the paramedics, but there are still flakes of red rust in the creases between his fingers and under his nails. Both Sherlock and John are bursting with exhilaration – Sherlock at getting solid five hours of entertainment, and John, presumably, at facing real danger for the first time in a year and a half, and also from saving someone's life – things like that, the saving lives part, Sherlock remembers, are important to John.

"Jesus," John says when they've scaled the stairs and spilled past the hallway and into the sitting room. "Jesus, that was--"

"Amazing?" supplies Sherlock, hanging his coat and scarf on the hook behind the door. He steps behind John, helps him get out of his jacket. John lets himself be assisted, then stumbles and falls into his armchair, breathing deep.

"Insane. Patently insane." He points at Sherlock. " _You_ are insane."

"Of course. And you enjoy it." Sherlock smiles, leaves John in the sitting room to thaw, and goes to the bathroom. He locks the door.

His nose has stopped bleeding, but his face is still spattered with tiny brown drops. The left side of his mouth is beginning to swell. He washes off the blood, runs a hand through his hair. He has to peel off his shirt from where it stuck to his skin at the collar. His chest is a patchwork of old and new bruises. He could run an experiment on himself. Take photographs. He could ask John to take photographs.

His gaze goes to his bruised mouth in the mirror. He could ask John to take photographs of more than his chest. What does Sherlock look like, performing fellatio? He can't really tell from the reflection.

There's a soft knock on the door.

"Sherlock?" asks John. "Are you all right?"

Heat floods Sherlock's body, a cascade of frayed nerves, out of nowhere. My God. He _is_ insane. He briefly contemplates the parts of himself that aren't yet stitched, bandaged or bruised. Not much left. Not much left for John to touch, to experiment with. He could lie on his back, perhaps, let John finish what he started last night. Or better yet, on his stomach, face down on the couch--

The thought thrills and terrifies him. The pace John had set; it's breath-taking.

Sherlock loves it.

"Sherlock," says John. His voice sounds odd. It takes a while for Sherlock to parse the tone. Worried. John is worried.

Sherlock clears his throat. "I'm fine," he says, loud. "Coming out in a bit." And then, to reinforce his fine-ness. "Go make tea."

When he comes out of the bathroom, the tea isn't made. John is sprawled in the armchair, head thrown back. He is fast asleep.

*

In Prague, Sherlock stumbled and fell, fire running through his side into numbness, whiting everything out. He remembers the pavement, hard and cold, slick cobblestone, and at the wrong angle to the rest of the world.

Someone rushed up to help him, turn him over onto his back. People shouting, calling for help. Someone holding him like they knew what they were doing, putting pressure on the wound.

It was a beautiful morning, cold and ethereal. Statues looked upon him from the bridge. Sherlock sprawled without control of his limbs, pieta in the arms of strangers. It felt different than after the fall, this ritual of being injured and being held; this was real. Blood was running into his eyes, and he couldn't see. He thought, fleetingly, that he might really be dying.

He didn't think about John. Not there. Not yet.

*

John sleeps until quarter to eleven. Sherlock has settled down with his laptop (poisonous plants of South America; he hasn't read on the subject in a while; there have been new discoveries; a couple new species, a few gone extinct), and he's browsing and scrolling, scrolling and browsing, trying not to think about sex. At some point, a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches appear at his side, and a pillow appears under John's head. 

John is completely relaxed in sleep. He must be dreaming of something mild and pleasant, because he huffs and smiles; doesn't frown, doesn't sweat.

It's all very domestic.

By the time John wakes, Sherlock has relocated himself to the desk. He has some notes to make, and it's inconvenient to write on one's knee when there's a perfectly acceptable desk available nearby. Relocation takes some effort (he has a rather good view on John, from his armchair; it is unfortunate to lose it), but work is work and science is science, so Sherlock takes his laptop and sits at the desk. He keeps John in the corner of his vision; better than nothing.

John blinks himself awake, contemplates the pillow with a frown, contemplates Sherlock, then shakes his head and goes to the bathroom.

He emerges looking exactly like he did before, minus the errant blood spatter over his left eyebrow. He comes up to the desk, and stands next to Sherlock. He picks up a few of the papers, puts them down. Sherlock continues typing his notes.

John smells like Sherlock's soap. From this distance, it's not too distracting.

"Who is Sophie Moran?" says John, and Sherlock feels cold sweat break over his skin in a rush so sudden he forgets to breathe for a moment. White noise floods his ears. He stops typing.

John doesn't notice. He has opened the folders from Mycroft and is now shuffling through the contents. He doesn't comprehend what he's looking at. He most likely won't.

Sherlock waits until he can hear again. He breathes, swallows, and he relaxes his clenched jaw. 

"Nobody," he says. "She's dead."

Then he turns, reaches out, and grabs at John's side with a still-shaking hand. John lets himself be pulled close. Sherlock buries his face in John's shirt, nose pressed hard against John's stomach.

John laughs softly; his body quivers under Sherlock's touch.

"Sherlock," he says, but he doesn't say _stop_.

Sherlock breathes John's smell for a while. Then he dares, moves his hands and lifts John's shirt, touches lips to skin. John's stomach is warm and soft. Sherlock closes his eyes, breathes in more, and marvels at being allowed to touch John's body like this. 

His mouth still hurts. He should offer what he thought about, before. They could stay at the flat. It would be an experiment. He is about to open his mouth – but John sighs, lays both hands on Sherlock's shoulders and applies pressure. _Away._

"Have to go," John murmurs. "Afternoon shift."

"Yes," says Sherlock. He doesn't move his head or his hands.

John waits a little longer, then sighs again and steps back and away from Sherlock's touch. Sherlock's hands fall, empty. John turns round and goes to the door. He puts on his blue jacket. He is not looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock keeps looking at John. He knows what this is; he can identify the emotion that threatens to close up his throat. He recognises the need that has awakened in him, unashamed and unwilling to cease. But Sherlock is the master of the universe, and he will be the master of his own body.

He swallows. "Come by after work," he says. _We could try more_ , he thinks. "Lestrade texted. There's been a murder in Dartford. Locked room, very mysterious." He makes an effort to smile. "Who knows, maybe we'll get guns pointed at us again. Could be fun." 

(Sherlock had worked out the murder in under five minutes this morning. Texted Lestrade back. Hasn't checked his phone since. He doesn't even want a cigarette.)

John looks at him. "That wasn't fun, Sherlock," he says. His voice has that slightly constipated tone, the one John gets when he's saying something he doesn't really mean. "A woman got shot."

"So?" Sherlock shrugs. "You saved her."

John doesn't say anything. 

Sherlock huffs. "Oh, don't pretend you're that dense, John, you know it doesn't work with me."

John smiles, gently. But he doesn't make a move to come back.

"It's not like you have anything better to do," says Sherlock.

"I have work," says John. "I work late tonight." He pauses. "And I've got Mary." At that, his voice goes very quiet.

Sherlock swallows. "That's fine," he says. He keeps his tone light. "It's completely fine. Actually, I quite enjoy being the extramarital affair. I didn't expect to, to be honest. Seen so many, always so complicated, so tedious. Turns out it's quite different, being in one yourself. Very interesting. Invigorating, actually."

John doesn't say anything to that. Sherlock turns back to his laptop and resumes typing. He's done with the comments on the extinct species. He's done with comments on everything – if John doesn't decide quickly, Sherlock will have to start typing rubbish just to keep the conversation going.

John clears his throat. "So this is what we're having, huh? An extramarital affair?"

Sherlock looks up from the laptop. John's face is twisted, halfway between sad and angry, and Sherlock feels a pang of something approaching regret. Sentiment, guilt, impropriety. God, emotions are so tiresome, more than tiresome; in large quantities, they are debilitating.

"Please don't be a hypocrite, John," Sherlock says. "It doesn't suit you. I'm not offended by any of this, so you don't have to be worried about that. You know my vices, and I know yours. We complement each other quite well in this regard."

John blinks. His expression doesn't change. Sherlock grimaces, waves his hand.

"Oh for God's sake, stop thinking, you'll hurt yourself. Just come here when you're done with work. Or fine, go to the hospital, read to her some more if that makes you feel better. But don't go to that flat anymore. It makes no sense, don't you see? Baker Street is closer to the clinic, your bedroom is clean. I know for a fact that Mrs Hudson aired it out for you very nicely. The rent is much less than the rent on your flat, the company is better, and there are so many things we haven't tried yet, so why would you still go? Why bother? It's not like she's ever coming back there."

John doesn't say anything to that, either, so Sherlock goes back to typing. John will see reason. John must see reason, there is no other option. John can be a very reasonable person.

John doesn't say anything for a very long time.

Sherlock looks up from the laptop again. He raises his eyebrows.

John huffs out a laugh. 

Sherlock's eyebrows go back down. This is not a good laugh. Sherlock recognises that laugh: John only ever laughs like this when Sherlock has said something that doesn't fit the societal norms John is futilely trying to impress upon him.

Sherlock rewinds what he said. Sex, rent, convenience. No, earlier. Thrill of the case. No, that's not it. That's all facts. Hypocrite, dense – could John be upset at the insults? No, that's happened more than once, he's used to it. The loathsome house, Mary. No, that's all facts too. Fine, perhaps the house isn't that horrible, it's only Sherlock's perception--

"Fuck you," says John, very clearly. "I'm trying, you know. I've been trying, but-- this is too much. I know you can't see shit beyond your own nose most of the time, but this-- this takes the cake, Sherlock. So fuck you. _Fuck_ you. Have a good fucking day."

And with that, he buttons up his coat and leaves, thumping down the stairs.

Still no limp, observes Sherlock.

Well, that is certainly something.

Sherlock spends the rest of the afternoon cataloguing the poisons. Some of them have hallucinogenic properties; most of them he hasn't yet tried. He briefly considers procuring some, for the purpose of introducing John to sex under the influence. He is told it is quite extraordinary – or, depending on the substance – not enjoyable in the least. The range is wide, and some of it sounds appealing, and applicable. John might be persuaded, who knows.

Sherlock is nothing if very proficient at doing his homework.


	5. Chapter 5

The following Tuesday it begins to dawn upon Sherlock that persuading John to experiment with South American poisons might take a little longer than he had originally planned.

This is not the first time John had walked out in a huff. Before, _before_ , he'd go, he'd kip on the sofa at the generosity of one of his girlfriends, or walk randomly around the city until his legs hurt and he had to come back to lie down. Sometimes he'd spend the night in the clinic, but all of this was immaterial, because in the end, John would always come back.

That gets tricky when the place John comes back to is his own flat.

Sherlock stops texting him when there is no response or an indication thereof for 48 hours. He weighs the odds of sexual frustration overcoming the need to be a civilised member of society (if the hypocrite comment carried any weight, John will be well into his integrity crisis by now, which is the most likely reason he doesn't respond to Sherlock's texts). Add to that the variable of Sherlock's deception still being unresolved in John's mind (Sherlock doubts that a fistfight and a two rounds of non-penetrative sex can resolve eighteen months of absence; however much Sherlock would like to hope that they would, he is aware the human brain does not work that way). Add to that the fact that Mary Morstan is still miraculously, stubbornly alive, and therefore John cannot let go, cannot even begin to move on – well, the probability of the situation resolving itself without further aid is not very high.

Sherlock contemplates that while rifling through a stack of cold case files laid out for him on Lestrade's desk. His feet on the table, he is pleasantly aware of thirty five pairs of eyes tracking him from the other side of the glass. He takes his time, but still ticks off the files, moving them from the ‘unsolved' pile to the ‘solved' pile one by one. He wonders if the officers are making more bets. 

Coffee was waiting for him this morning when he arrived. To be fair, he did text Lestrade when he left the flat. Best not to leave details to chance.

"Anyth--" says Lestrade, opening the door, and then he whistles, low. Then there is a pause, and Sherlock smiles.

"Are you even reading those?" says Lestrade, irritably. "Or are you doing this just to annoy me?"

Sherlock smiles wider. He underlines the name of one of the witnesses – the perpetrator, no doubt; the only one whose shoes have not been accounted for – and flops the folder over to the ‘solved' pile.

"It is hardly my fault that you continue to employ a bunch of incompetent morons," he says. "You can't expect me to clean up after everything they do."

Lestrade huffs at that, but says nothing. He takes a few folders from the solved pile, opens one and begins to read.

Sherlock solves a few more. Sips his coffee. It is a companionable silence.

"So," says Lestrade, because he can't keep his mouth shut for more than three minutes. "You and John. Did you sort it all out, now? Kiss and make up? All better?"

Sherlock breathes very, very carefully. Lestrade means well. He deserves neither a boot to the ribs nor a pen to the eye. He is voicing his concerns about the friendship between two of his own closest friends. He and John phone each other. Go for a pint. John said so.

Oh.

Self-awareness has never been an issue for Sherlock – he excels at it. That's what allows him to work so efficiently – he always knows where his own brain is, which is, on almost all occasions, either at the objective point of view, or exceedingly close to it.

That's how he realises he is angry because Lestrade is right.

He looks up from the case file. "No," he says. "We did not."

Lestrade looks confused. Sherlock has to remind himself that the Inspector knows nothing of the new aspect of the relationship between John and himself.

"John won't be assisting me for a while," he clarifies. "He has his own matters to resolve. You will find that I am perfectly capable of solving your murders by myself. I might want to borrow what's-his-face, though--"

"Jackson," supplies Lestrade.

"Yes, him. I still need an assistant."

He goes back to the file. A strangulation. Flour all over the place. Oh, fun.

After some time, Lestrade clears his throat. "You've done quite a number on him, you know."

Sherlock doesn't look up.

Lestrade presses on. "He's been quite shaken the first few months. Your brother-- Your brother asked me to keep an eye on him. Keep him from doing something stupid. You see, John had a weapon registered to him, but I couldn't find anything at your flat. Not at his flat, either."

Sherlock keeps his expression carefully steady. Mycroft had confiscated John's gun. Interesting. He never shared that particular detail.

"And then," Lestrade says. "Well, then there was Mary. And God in heaven, that woman..."

He stops. Sherlock realises he's read the same paragraph about flour seven times. He forces himself to read the next one. Silk threads. Hmmm.

"You should have seen her, Sherlock," says Lestrade. "That was a firework of a woman! Had John twisted around her little finger in less than a week. We all breathed with quite some relief when they married. But then--then this."

And at that, Lestrade mercifully shuts up. Sherlock looks at him. When he is certain the Inspector won't say anything else, he closes the folder with a snap.

"Like I said," he says. "John has a few matters of his own to resolve. Kindly extend to him the favour of leaving him to do it in peace."

Lestrade does not look very convinced. But eventually he nods, then immediately he gets that challenging look, the one by which Sherlock instantly recognises he is about to be extorted.

"And you?" says Lestrade, raising his chin. "Are you letting him resolve them in peace?"

Sherlock looks at him for a little while. Completely unsurprisingly, he thinks about kissing John. He thinks about it so hard he nearly forgets the question.

He blinks himself back to the present. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I am." And he goes back to the file.

*

Thousands of miles away, in a time zone halfway across the world, in a bubble of borrowed time, Sherlock sat with his legs straight and his back against the wall, his head tipped up to the ceiling. He was floating. Legitimate painkillers – just a tad more than prescribed – made his body feel sluggish and otherworldly. The haze around his mind, that soft cushion of lowered awareness, provided a buffer, and within that buffer the thoughts he didn't dare think when unimpaired were safe, insulated from running out into the world.

So he thought of John. Brazen and unabashed, he thought of every physical piece of John he could imagine touching, and could imagine touching him. He thought about how John's mouth would feel on his skin. He thought about his own mouth, and how many places on John's body he could put it to, how it would feel to do that. It was a purely mental exercise; his limbs were weak, his body soft and quietly hurting, and his libido nowhere to be found. So he imagined sensation: pure and simple awakening of nerve endings, friction and warmth. Basic trappings of a sexual relation.

It wasn't release, it wasn't even close to getting him where he needed to be.

It was not for the first time in his life that Sherlock could give shape to a physical need, but as ever before, its constituent parts were completely and helplessly dependent on someone outside his reach.

It was wretched.

*

He comes back to Baker Street in the late afternoon. The cases have quieted him down; he feels calm, nearly mellow; it pays to immerse himself in the mundane once in a while.

On the steps of 221B, he stops dead, looking at the locked front door.

He has forgotten his key.

No, he thinks, while he picks the lock and almost gets his finger broken. No, this doesn't happen. He doesn't _forget_ things, he simply chooses to omit them. He deletes them, when they're not necessary. But he doesn't _forget_.

The folders are the first thing he sees when he stomps into the sitting room. They sit there, mocking him, daring him to try.

He grits his teeth, comes up to the desk, and opens the first one.

Sophie Moran looks even younger here. A candid shot taken in front of a hotel, between the door and the taxi. Military jacket buttoned up tight, cargo pants, boots. A small, utilitarian suitcase. Short, dark hair; Sherlock can't tell the colour – the picture is black-and-white.

Where was he, on that day, when she was hurrying from that hotel into that cab? Experimenting? Chasing someone round London? Watching John smile? Analysing a crime scene?

Where was the knife?

Were their paths converging even then, to the moment when their lives would be set against each other and he would take hers?

No, they weren't. Sherlock closes the folder, and sets it aside. Sentimental drivel, that's all.

His hands don't shake when he makes himself tea, changes from his suit into his nightclothes and throws on his dressing gown. He skips the shower – no use creating physical distractions when he's still riding the pleasant intellectual high (the one with the baking flour and silk was especially interesting; people can be quite creative when cleaning up after murdering someone with a bottom wheel drop spindle). He opens the window in his bedroom, lies down on top of the covers, lights a cigarette, and waits to drop off to sleep.

*

In the dark, Sophie Moran is sitting on the armoire, swinging her legs in the air. There is a handcrafted air-gun on the stack of CDs next to her. She is smiling.

Sherlock is holding a knife. He can't move. He thinks he is lying in bed. He isn't dressed. His clothes wouldn't be a barrier enough if she fired the gun.

"What do you think, Mister Sherlock Holmes," she says.

Her hair is brown, and she is wearing make-up that has turned her into a woman twenty years older. Sherlock understands the disguise. Without it, she doesn't look reliable enough. Who would hire her, looking like a seventeen-year-old?

Sherlock squeezes the hilt of the knife.

"Time for killing," Sophie Moran says, and she jumps off the dresser.

Hot droplets fall on Sherlock's face. He can't move, he can't shift away.

She straddles him, takes his knife hand into hers, and then they're twisting the knife together, and it slides under her ribs like they're made of soft cheese. She presses close to him. He still cannot move.

"Stop it," he says. His hand is warm and slick. She smiles, then opens her mouth on a soft _Oh_ and they both become aware it's not the knife he is pressing into her flesh anymore. The change is subtle, but it's perfectly logical, and now she is on her back on the bed and he is on top, and her body closes around his, and it's not enough pressure, not enough.

He wakes into the ebbing aftershocks of a weak orgasm, his hips straining into the bed, his body seeking more pressure and stronger sensation. He becomes aware of a deep, boring pain in his left ear; his jaw is stiff and his teeth are numb. Was he crying? The moisture on the pillow could be tears or sweat – but his throat is constricted, his eyes hurt; crying, then.

He turns onto his back, takes stock of the room (tidy; empty; window still open). He takes stock of the flat (silence; no movement; there is nobody here but him).

He exhales, slowly. Then he unfolds himself and gets out of bed.

Going back to sleep is pointless, so he takes a quick shower to wash off the filth, puts on his dressing gown over clean nightclothes and goes to the sitting room.

Mycroft's other folders are still on the desk, and still unopened.

Sherlock contemplates them for a little while. Mycroft does everything for a reason, and there are things in these files he wanted Sherlock to see. Whether to prevent what just occurred or to amplify it is anyone's guess – he won't know until he reads them. There could be more ‘trophies': accounts of deaths he has not dealt himself, but in which he assisted. Notes on sordid affairs that were thought to justify the fate of the people involved. Details which Sherlock overlooked, and which either confirm or dissolve his deductions.

Well, best to get it over with. He needs to sleep.

Sherlock rubs his jaw to get the ache out of his ear, sits down and opens the first folder.

*

The folder contains partial evidence in a case of a box of jewellery stolen from a wealthy family in Sussex three weeks prior. The witnesses kept changing their stories and eventually all decent leads dried up.

The case proves entertaining enough, and it takes up all of the next day. Sherlock doesn't even have to travel very far, which is convenient. He doesn't feel comfortable leaving London for long; he has only just returned, and he wants to spend time in his city.

He doesn't text John. The family's adult daughter is John's type (i.e. she is a beautiful woman), and Sherlock has snapped her picture and is about to send it when he remembers that John is now married and he and John are having an affair. Sherlock is shit at personal boundaries, he is very well aware of this fact, but he understands that given this context, a picture of another woman would not be appropriate on multiple levels. 

(Would it entice John to come with him if he sent it as a joke?)

He talks the daughter into confessing, corners her very quickly once he spots her tells; former captain of the debating team, she is pleasantly challenging to converse with. Sherlock briefly entertains the idea of letting her loose, but there is an air of entitlement in the way she holds herself, and he knows John would not approve. So he flirts with her, gets her to blush, and then crushes her and delivers her, weeping, into the waiting cuffs of DI Dimmock.

It is, overall, a pleasant day.

Owing this one to Mycroft is just about the only downside.

When he gets back to the flat, he closes the first folder, sets it aside, and contemplates the second one. He reminds himself there are only three, and that Mycroft knows he's an addict. If his brother left them here in order (which he must have; there is no way these are random cases), the next one will be more complex than the first. Linear or exponential? Linear would be boring. Therefore it will take longer than a day or two – most probably a week. Either that or the level of danger is higher, which would be a good trade-off as well.

If there is danger, though, then the message is obvious: Sherlock is not expected to do it alone.

He remembers the Yves Saint Laurents on the stack of clean clothes. The way Mycroft accepted Sherlock was back in his element, and stepped discreetly aside. He wonders if Mycroft factored in a sexual relationship; if he expected it would complicate matters. He most probably didn't.

(Does Mycroft know about it now? Does he still have John under surveillance?)

Sherlock touches the folder. He thinks about Sophie Moran sitting on the dresser; he doesn't usually remember dreams (he sleeps too briefly for them to make any impression), but he remembers the knife in his hand very well.

He takes a deep breath and opens the folder.

*

There is danger.

In the grand scheme of things, not much of it, but it costs Sherlock four days, a black eye, bruised knuckles and a night alone in a skip. The fugitive has run askance the law in Canada, stole an identity of a Turkish businessman (he has the bloodline for it, but Sherlock can hear the Montreal accent just fine) and attempted to re-establish ties with his family in the Ukraine. The range of things they were smuggling into the UK caught the eye of the UNODC, but their target disappeared off the face of the Earth before anyone could make a move on him or his suppliers.

Lestrade laughs that Sherlock must have found him by scent, because by the time they dig Sherlock out of the skip at four in the morning, his clothes are so filthy even the flies don't want to have anything to do with him. He'd sent Lestrade the location of the Turk's safe house before his mobile gave out, and added ‘In a skip in Watford, dying,' just so that they wouldn't accuse him of losing his touch.

The paramedics are cleaning up his hands when Lestrade whips up his mobile and takes a call. Sherlock can see his posture change (stop, straighten back; head turned away from Sherlock, neck stiff) and he knows.

Lestrade says a few more things and pockets the phone. When he turns round, Sherlock stands up, ignoring the paramedics.

"She's dead," Sherlock says, walking up.

Lestrade scowls and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "They called it five minutes ago."

Sherlock nods. "John?"

"On his way from the clinic. Sherlock--"

"I have to go."

He turns, but Lestrade catches his arm. "Sherlock, stop."

Sherlock sees white. He turns round, yanks his arm away. Advances a step before his brain realises that Lestrade has let him go, and that the expression on the Inspector's face is not aggression, but sadness.

He takes a breath. The whiteness dissipates.

"Sherlock," Lestrade says. He looks stricken. "For God's sake. Please. Don't fuck this up."


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing Sherlock thinks when he sees John in the hospital corridor is ‘small'.

Which is a fact. John is short, barely five foot seven, but he takes this as his due and he doesn't do stupid things like wearing shoes with thicker heels. Also, being small is good for a soldier; makes you a more difficult target; Sherlock is grateful for that.

But under the clear, white lights, on the narrow bench in the corridor at Bart's, John isn't just short. He has folded himself inwards, wrapped in his blue denim jacket, and is holding himself there, occupying as little space as possible. 

His eyes widen when he sees Sherlock, and Sherlock remembers the skip, the stench and the wounds. No matter. What matters is John.

"Sherlock," John says, standing up. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock walks up to him, peers into his eyes. Tired, red-rimmed, frequently rubbed-at, but present. No artificial enhancements. Good. John will need his faculties.

Sherlock looks around the corridor. "Where are they?"

John frowns at him. "Who?"

Sherlock scoffs. "The parents. Are they here yet?"

John looks uncomfortable. 

Sherlock nods. "The mother is. Good. Is she making the arrangements?" John continues not to say anything, but the corner of his mouth turns down. "She is. Splendid. Come with me."

He tugs at John's arm, but John doesn't follow. In fact, he puts his hands behind his back, and sets his jaw.

Sherlock predicted that. He turns round. He doesn't let go of John's arm. He grips the other one, so he is now framing John in his own hands. He knows this kind of touch is designed to be grounding, and he executes the exact pressure required for it to be just so. He leans down, looks into John's face again.

"John," he says, in his calmest voice, the one with the downward inflection, the one he reserves for victims in shock and those who absolutely need to calm down right _now_. "It's very late and you need to rest now. You've done your part, there is nothing else that is required of you today. She is in good hands, she will be taken care of, and you need to prepare for what comes next, so you need to come home now. Come on, John."

John blinks. He frowns, like he doesn't fully parse what Sherlock just said, and then he wrinkles his nose.

"You stink," he says. "Why do you stink?" But he lets himself be pulled alongside Sherlock down the corridor, so Sherlock ignores it. 

"Mycroft's fault," Sherlock says, and pulls John outside into a waiting cab.

*

The cabbie complains a bit about the smell, so Sherlock tells him to keep the change, and they tumble through the door of 221B without too much trouble. Mrs Hudson has been waiting up. There is dinner (or, more appropriately, breakfast) comprised of mini quiches and a fruit salad. Mrs Hudson can't seem to decide which of them to fuss over more, so she favours John, which is a reasonable default. 

Sherlock wishes she'd stop fussing altogether and just leave the bloody quiches on the kitchen table. She doesn't – she helps John into his chair like he's an invalid and she doesn't have a bad hip; she brings up tea and biscuits, and then she rushes off to get John clean sheets, because, aired or not, the bedroom upstairs is apparently not habitable without sheets fresh from the washing, and never mind that John doesn't have any nightclothes, she'll find a little something too, just you wait.

When she leaves, John leans forward in the chair, elbows on knees, and puts his head in his hands.

Something constricts in Sherlock's chest, something quick and uncontrollable. He pushes it down. There are gestures he could make, an offer of proximity, of comfort – but he is unsure if they might be misconstrued, given the context between the two of them.

He goes to the kitchen instead, stands under the harsh lights and looks at the food on the table.

He is aware that he has not slept in four days. He has not eaten. He drank water several times while on the hunt, but that's the extent of his fluid intake. Now the case is over, and he has no more fuel.

If he goes into his bedroom, chances are he will fall sleep.

Chances are he will dream again.

He stands in the kitchen for a while, calculating the odds. He thinks about the packs of white powder stashed in various places around the flat where no drugs bust, however meticulous, can find them. Then he wonders if they are still there, given that Mycroft's people have been through the flat and made off with the rug.

He discards the possibilities, one by one. He doesn't need clarity of mind. He needs to be knocked out.

"Sherlock?" says John, and Sherlock shudders. He shouldn't. Not _today_ , of all days. And certainly not right _now_.

He unglues his feet from the floor, and goes to the sitting room. "Yes?" He schools his expression into calm attentiveness.

John is rubbing his face. "Sherlock, what am I doing here?"

Sherlock swallows. "You are spending the night. Or what's left of it, anyway."

John nods. "But I'm not-- I should be at home-- I should be..." he trails off. He looks around the room. He appears disoriented. Then he wrinkles his nose. "What's that sm-- Oh." He looks Sherlock up and down. His eyes are bright. "You really should take a shower, you know."

Sherlock forgot about that again. He looks down at himself. His suit is ruined. The oxfords from Mycroft might have to be replaced. Thank God he took the leather jacket to this investigation, and not the coat.

"Yes," he says. "In a minute." He takes a breath. "Do you-- uh, do you need anything?"

John blinks at him slowly. "Need?"

"Yes," Sherlock says. "Would you like me to bring you your tea? Quiche? A biscuit?"

John keeps blinking. Then he laughs softly. "Seriously? Who are you?"

Sherlock huffs. "Fine. Suit yourself." He turns on his heel and heads for the bathroom.

He looks at his face in the mirror. He scowls at the stubble and dirt, at the blackening bruise that wraps his left eye like a crescent moon. Who in their right mind would like to be near this, never mind even _think_ of sex.

He sheds his clothes and steps into the shower. Hot water down his back is the best thing since microscopes. Sherlock closes his eyes, turns his head up into the spray, letting the dirt wash off his body and down the drain. He drifts into a pleasant state of lowered awareness. The case turns itself over in his head, ties up the last strings, washes away with the filth and the stench.

The challenge had been interesting, although in the end, quite pedestrian, as almost all the solved ones turn out to be. True, it did take his mind off things related to John, but it wasn't interesting enough to drown them out completely.

Sherlock had plenty of time to think at the bottom of the skip, and rather than uselessly pick at the crowbar, he chose to spend the time thinking about trajectory.

Trajectories are important. If calculated precisely, they tell one about future events. Which do come in handy when predicting said events is the only means of preventing an unnecessary death or an unwelcome crime. Background knowledge of physics, politics or mathematics is often required, but sometimes also less scientific elements, like psychology.

And with John and Mary, the trajectory is wrong.

It has been eating at Sherlock, mildly, ever since Lestrade mentioned the gun. Seventeen days, a sudden decline – and now death – and yet John's behaviour is surprisingly hard to quantify on the scale made of stages of grief.

Reading books to a hopelessly comatose woman could be constituted as denial, if one squints, but there was no fight in John's face after their sessions. Lashing out at Sherlock could be anger, but to be fair, Sherlock did provoke him, and the reaction wasn't that much out of ordinary for John. Sherlock hasn't witnessed him expressing wishes or bargains or ifs, so he could be past that stage too. Not much left, but a mistake at this point could be costly.

Sherlock does not exclude himself as a factor in this – he is an aberration, returned from the dead, which is quite a shock to the system – but the shift in their relationship might be the effect just as well as the cause.

If he had any illusions that what tethered John to him was strong enough, he'd let John arrive at stage five in peace. But as such, he is risking this going into the wrong direction. Mycroft might have taken John's gun, but a determined man will find means to an end, no matter the cost. So the only thing Sherlock can offer is proximity, and a careful eye.

He remembers John doing the same for him. He also knows John had no idea Sherlock understood. No matter. What matters right now is that John remains close, within Sherlock's reach.

When he comes out of the bathroom, night is fading over the city, and the shapes of buildings outside his windows have become visible on the backdrop of blue.

John is not in the chair anymore. His shoes are on the floor, so has not left – merely relocated to the upstairs bedroom. There's a fresh scent of herbal cigarettes in the air – Mrs Hudson came back with clean clothes and clean sheets, shooed him up to sleep.

Sherlock stands in the kitchen for a while, dripping water from his hair. Then he picks up his tea and goes to recline on the couch. He closes his eyes. If he thinks about sleep, maybe it will be enough.

*

When John comes down the stairs several hours later, the morning has come and gone, and Sherlock is still on the couch, paper in hand. His tea has gone stone cold, and if John had a functioning brain, he would notice Sherlock had been sitting there for hours. But John's brain, if functional and occasionally amusing, is thankfully not capable of such a feat.

John comes down the stairs about thirty per cent more slowly than his average. His gait is even, though, so the limp has not returned.

He acknowledges Sherlock with a grunt, and goes to the kitchen. He makes tea, he opens the fridge. 

There is food in the fridge. 

(There is an experiment in the Petri dish on the kitchen table, but it has not yet ripened enough to warrant slowing down the process with low temperatures.) 

John inevitably finds the food and makes himself a sandwich with it. He does not make one for Sherlock and he doesn't ask.

Sherlock is still not hungry. He has managed to fool the sensors by drowning his stomach with tea.

John comes into the sitting room. He sits in his chair, sets down the sandwich plate on the side table, and drinks his tea. Sherlock pretends to read the paper.

It's better this way, really. John is wearing a grey t-shirt and black pyjamas that are a little too long. He hasn't shaved, but he has used the toothbrush Sherlock had bought and left for him in the upstairs bathroom last week.

"So," says John, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"No," says Sherlock. "And you won't convince me to go."

John runs his hand through his hair. It is in need of washing. Sherlock expects John will tend to it after breakfast. All the necessary toiletries are in his bathroom. John must have seen that while brushing.

Sherlock wants to know what John's hair feels like when wet. He wants to run his fingers through it, and tug at it, and see what John's neck would look like, bared.

He turns the page. There's an insurance advertisement that takes half of it; some drivel with a dog in it. The dog is wet. Sherlock ponders what that has to do with insurance. Flood, maybe?

"Her mother hates me, you know?" says John. His voice is even, like he's talking about what the weather will be like. "She thinks Mary wasted what remained of her life, with me."

Sherlock doesn't say anything. It was clear from the pictures that Mary's mother had not approved of the wedding. The father did, though – you cannot mistake that look: gratitude, pride. Phrases like ‘son I never had' and ‘my little girl' run through Sherlock's head. He thinks he should say them. Reassurance, that's what he should do. That's what friends do. Help each other get through difficult times.

"She insisted that we wait at least a year," says John. "Date, you know. For a longer time."

With John's track record that would have been sensible, thinks Sherlock. Had the mother done research before letting John into their life? Or did she base her feelings on unfounded prejudice? Research, he decides. Her hair, her hat, her jewellery; a person like that does not go through life without performing background checks on everybody. She would have got on splendidly with Mycroft.

Sherlock clears his throat. "You don't have to seek those people's praise anymore, John. You owe them nothing. You already gave what you had, what more can they possibly want?"

John laughs. "Are you telling me not to go to my own wife's funeral? Is this what you're doing right now?"

Sherlock shrugs. "You didn't go to mine."

John falls silent. Sherlock looks up from the paper. John looks ridiculous with his hair. The stubble in his cheeks is growing in brown. Sherlock again thinks about kissing.

"I got there later," says John, and he frowns immediately. "But you went," he says. "Of course you went to your own funeral, you bastard. What was I thinking. Jesus, your ego--" He looks away.

Sherlock folds the paper and sets it on his knees. "I was looking for you. I wanted to see if you were all right."

John nods. He flashes a smile, but Sherlock can tell it's not real. It seems that without meaning to, Sherlock has opened up the old grief. He doesn't know what to do with that. He thinks he'd rather watch John shave, and then touch his skin with his fingertips, look at them both in the bathroom mirror.

"But I wasn't all right," John says. "I was _not all right_ , Sherlock. You must have known that. You know everything."

I do, thinks Sherlock. I did.

Emotions, he thinks. Coming right up. He twists his mouth, looks away from John, and picks up the paper. Turns the page. Fails to focus on the print.

It had been easy to contemplate John from a distance. It has even been surprisingly easy to contemplate John from the vicinity of his groin. His hand on Sherlock, that was easy too. The need for physical contact, the hunger in his body, that wasn't very difficult.

When Lestrade asked about kissing, he didn't mean it in the literal sense. But Sherlock thought about it all the same. And he'd been angry. He recognizes he is angry right now; the feeling is a hollow ring of pain, spreading outward from of his solar plexus. John doesn't understand. How can John deduce almost everything about Sherlock's absence, lay it down like an offering of peace, then give Sherlock the only thing he's been missing, fill the gaping hole in his life that he had not been aware of; how can John do all that so effortlessly and still not understand?

Sherlock closes his eyes. The words don't line up the way they should.

"Right," says John, after a while. He stands. "Got to go wash up." He takes his empty cup into the kitchen, leaves his uneaten sandwich on the plate by the chair, and is gone back upstairs before Sherlock can open his mouth.

*

Molly made coffee, loaded it up with sugar and brought two cups down to the room next to the morgue. She drank as Sherlock buttoned up the flannel shirt and fitted the belt through the loops in the kind of trousers he never wore. She drank and looked as he bent down and laced up the used pair of Doc Martens, she drank and looked as he threw on the parka and fitted his hair under the knitted cap.

She never stopped looking when he leaned back against the table, and they had coffee together at last, even though she mostly stood and drank in silence, and he mostly stood and drank and flitted through his new phone, checking maps, timetables, departures.

She never stopped looking, and he found that her gaze did not irritate him as much as it had before. And his presence, likewise, did not seem as aggravating to her as it had been. Perhaps this new, less threatening incarnation of his would not send her into fits of giggles and trembles anymore, would not make her breath come short and her pulse flutter like a moth.

If he had to die to make this happen, and she had to bring him back from the dead, then perhaps he should have done this earlier, just to spare himself the inconvenience, and her some very bad choices.

"They let him go back," said Molly, looking into her coffee. She sipped, and then looked up at Sherlock, and Sherlock kept not looking at her. "Back to your flat." There was a 17:30 from Heathrow to Schiphol and that was the one he'd be on.

"But he wouldn't go," Molly said. "I think he's staying with his-- his sister. He has family." She paused. "That's good. It's good to have family."

Sherlock nodded, because apparently they were having coffee and a conversation too. He texted Mycroft, got coordinates back. Checked the GPS. Twenty minutes away. Get the passports, get to the airport, fly out, disappear.

"Are you going to tell him it's ok?"

He looked up, confused. "That what's ok?"

Molly did not shrink, as she usually did when he spoke. It was subtle, the change in her posture, the look in her eyes.

She had arranged him on the slab, moved his limbs and combed his hair. She had told him to keep still.

She had made him bad coffee and loaded it up with enough sugar to sustain him for days.

She had crossed from the side-lines of his life _into_ his life, and had correctly perceived that it had happened.

She met his eyes, took a sip. "Are you going to tell him it's ok to go back to your flat?"

He stared at her. She had correctly perceived more than just her own place in his world.

Was that going to be a problem?

He swallowed. "You must not tell him, Molly. Nothing. Do you understand?"

For a moment, she looked uncertain. Plans and designs formed in Sherlock's head. There must be a way to keep her from spilling the beans to John for two months. Could not be that difficult.

But she only nodded, and went back to her coffee. She didn't say anything else after that.

He asked Mycroft, six months later, if he had said something, done something, but the brief surprise on his brother's face told him everything he needed to know.

*

Sherlock lounges in the sitting room all morning, listening for the sounds from upstairs. John takes a shower, and then uses the new razor and the shaving cream. He dresses into yesterday's clothes. Then the bed creaks and there is silence. Sherlock expects to hear--he is not sure what he is expecting to hear. Sobs? Breaking furniture? Snoring?

He hears nothing. Which means John is either lying in his bed awake, or he has gone quietly to sleep.

Ah. Sleep. Sherlock contemplates sleep.

He can go without for up to ninety six hours without losing focus. After that, his neurons don't fire as well, and his brain begins shutting down. If he hydrates sufficiently, his body will be able to go on fumes for twenty four more hours, but after that it's anyone's guess. Cocaine helps – cocaine helps a lot – but that particular pastime never ends well; he loses days after, digs himself into fugues that last so long he scrapes his fingers bloody on the violin. He is not particularly interested in doing this right now.

He needs to sleep.

He contemplates going upstairs. Surely John understands the principle of physical release as a catalyst for relaxation. Every man does.

But would this be too early? The norms of their society, multicultural as it is, warrant a period of mourning. John, who is not religious, is most likely unencumbered by those, if only to the extent ingrained in him by his parents, or now expected by Mary's mother. John is likely to ignore the latter, given the negative aspects of their relationship. But then again, John possesses a strong moral principle, and thus mourning, if he is to engage in it, would be out of respect for the memory of his wife.

Sherlock remembers the touch of John's hand on his stomach. He remembers John's belly quivering under his lips. He closes his eyes.

 _Don't fuck this up_ , he thinks.

He won't fuck this up. He throws the paper on the table, throws on his coat and thunders downstairs and out into the day.

He walks for some time, straight ahead, across Regents Park and into the city streets. He watches people go about their daily business and absorbs the monotonous chatter of their lives, their voices, their _details_. Every now and again, a red flag pops up, and he looks, focuses for a moment, discerns the reason, lets it go; it's mental push-ups, necessary exercise – much like violin, or any other complex skill, unused abilities fade over time.

It helps, but it's not enough, not even close. The combination of hunger, desire and lack of sleep makes him dizzy. He thinks he might actually throw up. He has to slow down, stop, lean on railings, sit on park benches.

This won't do, he thinks, closing his eyes and turning his face up to the sun. This won't do at all.

He walks some more, finds a grocer. He contemplates pastries (quick injection of calories; his blood sugar levels must be dangerously low) but his stomach turns at the sight of food. He gets two anyway; crams them into his mouth even before he gets to the cash register; nearly throws up there and then, manages to hold them in. He gets bread (the mould culture he's growing needs nutrition) and cigarettes (he needs _something_ ; if he doesn't get to have John, he needs _something_ ), and at last circles back to the flat.

It's quiet when he opens the door. A sluggish wave of panic climbs up his throat, too slow to provoke any reaction – but then there's a loud bout of game-show music from behind Mrs Hudson's door, so Sherlock takes a deep breath, calms down and goes upstairs.

John's shoes are still on the floor by his chair. Sherlock looks at them for a while. His fingers twitch. Out of the blue, he thinks about John's feet; he wonders if he should like to caress them.

God, he is lost. He _has_ lost. There is no winning in this.

He sprinkles the bread over the mould culture and opens the cigarette pack. The crinkle of foil and the breaking of paper are pleasant tactile sensations. His blood sugar levels are rising. He's bought himself an hour of two.

This should be enough, he reckons, to suffer the separation from John for a little longer.

*

John comes downstairs again in the late afternoon. He is moving faster, and he sounds refreshed. Slept, then, and for several hours. Full REM cycle. No nightmares. Good.

Sherlock is reclining on the sofa again, going through the rest of the now obsolete morning paper. He has opened the window, and the fifth cigarette tastes just as good as the first.

John stops in the doorway. "Have you even moved?" he says, scratching his head.

Sherlock pointedly takes a long drag, and exhales a puff of smoke.

"You could have been hiding those under the sofa," says John, and then he goes to the kitchen. He is indeed wearing the clothes from yesterday. He slept in them, which means he did not mean to sleep.

John makes tea again, then comes into the sitting room and sits in his chair. The sandwich from this morning has disappeared, but no empty plate has appeared in the sink; Mrs Hudson has been in to check on John.

Sherlock glances at him. John isn't looking his way; instead he has thrown his head back and relaxed into the chair; he is breathing slowly, eyes closed, and Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, too long – it feels like _before_ , and is comfortable and domestic in a way Sherlock did not expect. Sherlock turns away, closes his eyes, leans back against the arm of the sofa and smokes.

After a while, a rustle rouses him from his non-sleep. Footsteps, his brain translates. Sherlock lifts his head, blinks his eyes open.

John is standing over him, looking down at Sherlock's body sprawled on the couch, at Sherlock's fingers holding the cigarette and the edge of the paper. John's expression is thoughtful; could be mournful, could be something else; unreadable.

"John?" Sherlock prompts.

John blinks at him slowly, then takes a breath, squares his shoulders, bends and takes the cigarette out of Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock is so surprised he lets it go without protest.

John contemplates the cigarette. He takes it between his lips and inhales; short, shallow – inexperienced smoker, will do this for the company, but won't indulge on his own; must have tried in the army, talking and laughing with his mates one day, shooting and killing the next--

John exhales the smoke, licks his lips. "Dreadful," he concludes, shrugging, and then he crushes the cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table; Sherlock remembers he's stolen that ashtray from the Buckingham Palace. He wonders if John remembers that too.

"There," says John. "Now we both taste the same." He moves closer, takes the now-abandoned paper out of Sherlock's hands and sets it aside, and then he straddles Sherlock's hips and leans in.

This is wrong, Sherlock thinks. This is not how I want this.

He pulls away so abruptly he hits the back of his head on the arm of the sofa. 

John stops, lips halfway to Sherlock's mouth. He pulls back a bit, regards Sherlock for a moment, and then he smiles – and it's dazzling, that smile; it goes almost all the way up to John's eyes. And it would be convincing – mesmerising, John back to his old self – but for the sad slant in those eyes; the crow's feet at the corners not deep enough, not genuine enough. 

"All right," says John. "That's all right." He smiles again, quick, and then lowers his head and puts his mouth to Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock makes a sound. It wrings out of him, unwanted, and out of context it would sound not unlike pain. But John knows, he must know, because he lifts one hand and cradles Sherlock's face – no, not cradles, _steers him_ – and pulls Sherlock's head to the side, bares Sherlock's neck for his mouth, and begins laying biting kisses to Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock breathes and puts a firm lid on the burst of giddiness that threatens to spill from his lungs. He tries to think rationally about the ways this could end, about the way this is _going_ to end. He doesn't have that many clothes on. John's jeans and t-shirt are easily taken care of; he hasn't put on his shoes yet. John's free hand is pressing down on Sherlock's shoulder, heel against collarbone. John is determined, but still exhausted. Short fuse. The kisses to Sherlock's neck are hard, but John's mouth is not very precise – as if he's trying to get everywhere, trying to taste everything. As if he's in a hurry.

John's body is a considerable weight on Sherlock's hips. John's hands are on Sherlock's chest, palms flat and open. Sherlock shifts a little, and John shifts with him, and Sherlock clamps down tighter on the sounds in his throat, because he can feel John getting hard against his hip, and his own thoughts of restraint start to fade into the background, drowned in white noise.

No, he thinks. No, no, no, don't. _Don't._

John makes a muffled sound into Sherlock's skin, and Sherlock's breath catches. He knows the sounds John makes, he has a list. He doesn't like this sound.

"I'm sorry," says John. He pulls up; his cheek slides against Sherlock's cheek. He lets out a small laugh. His chest is heaving. "Oh God, I'm sorry. I tried-- But I can't stop. I _need_ you. I'm sorry. God, I can't--" He lowers his head to Sherlock's shoulder again, turns his face into Sherlock's throat. He doesn't kiss this time, just holds his mouth there.

Comfort, remembers Sherlock. This should be comfort. This is what I am supposed to do. The context is wrong because of the mourning, and yet the kisses, the hardness-- But this is _John_ , and if John _needs_ this, Sherlock will not fuck this up, he will _not_.

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock lifts his hand and strokes down John's back. He moves his hand up, strokes again. It's a long, measured movement, one he has seen work with children or people who are skittish or hurt or scared. Human brain associates it with safety.

"It's fine," Sherlock says into John's hair. "It's fine, John. It's good." He keeps stroking, up and down, slow, and he thinks, _I might get used to this_ , and then, _of course, that's because I'm an addict_ , and then, because this is the only thing left, and this is something he can do, he says, "John, shall we go to the bedroom?" and John makes this sound, this breathless laugh, warm and wet against Sherlock's skin, and it goes straight to where Sherlock is the weakest, where his nerves coil and twist like snakes in his gut.

He keeps stroking, up and down, slow, until John pulls away, wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

"God damn it," John says, laughing a little. He looks at Sherlock's mouth, then away. Sherlock looks at John's face.

John's eyes are unfocused. His pupils are dilated. The pulse in his neck is beating hard against his skin. He is still straddling Sherlock's hips, and his erection is still pressing into the crease between Sherlock's hip and his groin. (It doesn't find a corresponding physical reaction in Sherlock, not quite yet – his body does not work this way.)

It's a fascinating reaction, the chemistry of sex unfurling in John's body despite the protests of his mind. Sherlock chooses to take that as a compliment – until he remembers the correlations between the levels of certain chemicals in the body with the brain's capacity for rational thought.

"You're impaired," he says.

John's eyes are shining. "Yes." He smiles again, like he's proud of it. His raises his hand to cradle Sherlock's face, and draws a long caress down his jaw. The touch is electric. Sherlock shivers.

"I am severely impaired by your presence," says John. "You. You impair me."

"That's not what I meant," says Sherlock.

John nods. "I know what you meant. I don't give a fuck." He leans in, lays a quick kiss against Sherlock's throat, and then he slides off Sherlock's legs and stands up. He reaches out. Sherlock takes his hand, autopilot. John pulls him up, then lets him go and turns on his heel. He beelines through the kitchen and into Sherlock's bedroom, not looking back. 

There is a thunder that is trying to get out of Sherlock's chest. His limbs feel soft and far away. He gathers himself and follows.

In the bedroom, Sherlock locks the door and leans against it. He takes a deep breath and watches John undress.

Belt buckle, trousers, pants and socks go on the floor. Jumper goes over the footboard. John turns to look at Sherlock, opens his cuffs and then starts on his shirt buttons. His legs are pleasantly muscled, his toenails short and clean. He is fully hard now, unashamed and glorious.

Sherlock pushes himself away from the door and goes to his knees.

He uses his hands this time, like he promised, and John's fingers start shaking as they work up through his buttons. When Sherlock takes him into his mouth, John makes a pleased – and pleasing – sound, and threads one hand through Sherlock's hair. It's a gentle touch; John isn't pulling. Sherlock wishes he would.

John takes his hand away, finishes opening the buttons. He pulls the shirt off his shoulders, and the undershirt over his head, and then he is naked, and Sherlock leans back, hand still pulling slow and tight, and he takes in the sight of skin and hair, muscles and tendons and bones under the skin; everything that is now his to touch.

He looks up at John's face. John meets his eyes, and the need in them is better than anything Sherlock could ever do to get outside himself. Sherlock licks his lips. He knows what his mouth must look like. 

"What do you need, John?" he asks. He continues to pull with his hand, up and down, slow.

John breaks eye contact, cranes his neck. He is swaying along with the movement of Sherlock's hand. 

"Are you going to run away?" he says.

Sherlock doesn't parse. He keeps moving his hand. Squeezes.

"Don't--ohhh," says John. "Don't change the subject."

"What subject," says Sherlock, and he leans in, and licks John up and down, up and down, following the grip of his hand.

"Oh, God," says John. "Ohhh, Christ." He takes a breath. "You know what I mean. After we do this. You-- you run away. You don't let me-- ohh, _God_ , Sherlock--"

"I will let you," promises Sherlock. "I won't run away." He takes John into his mouth again. He has grown to enjoy the texture more than the taste, and he is pleased with his progress in making John make more sounds.

John touches his shoulder. Sherlock doesn't want to let go, but John's touch is very clear, so he pulls back.

"You have too many clothes on," says John. "I think it's, um-- an imbalance. That you should address."

Sherlock does not necessarily agree – he finds the imbalance intriguing; there are many things he could do to John's body while John is naked in his hands, and Sherlock himself is dressed – but there will be time for those things, so Sherlock nods, lets John go and stands up to remove his clothes.

John relocates to Sherlock's bed, sits on the edge, and watches Sherlock strip. John's hand goes between his legs, and he begins stroking himself; it's slow, like an afterthought; he is not getting off, he is keeping up. Sherlock pulls his t-shirt over his head.

When he is done undressing, he goes back to his knees – this position is safe, both considering their relative height and John's previously expressed preference. It places Sherlock between John's splayed legs, so he lays his hands gently on the tops of John's knees. He doesn't make a move to push them further apart – it is not his place to do so.

"What do you need, John?" he asks again.

John is looking at him like he's lost something; it's impossible to tell what – not enough data. He continues to stroke himself, and with his free hand he reaches out and touches Sherlock's cheek.

"This is ridiculous," he whispers, smiling, like it's a secret. "God, absolutely ridiculous. Just-- just look at you. Look at us. Oh _God_." He runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair, follows the path of his hand. His eyes are wide, full of wonder. "Just look at you," he says.

Sherlock lets himself be caressed. The touch against his scalp reminds him vaguely of Irene, and that is perhaps a little unfair. But then John is dragging his fingers through Sherlock's hair, back and forth, back and forth, and the touch is losing its gentleness by degrees. When John's fingers tangle and pull a little too hard, Sherlock hisses, closes his eyes, and lets his mouth fall open.

"Oh," says John. "Oh, God."

Sherlock smiles. He untangles himself from John's touch, and, before he can change his mind, he crawls around John, onto the bed, and stretches across the sheets on his stomach, arms crossed in front of him, feet hanging off the edge by the pillows. He turns his head to the side, away from John, and breathes slowly; the covers are soft and thick, and his bed has a good give – with the right pressure and the right angle he would have trouble taking the next breath. Maybe John will go there tonight, maybe he won't. The desires open up like a chasm in front of Sherlock, and for a terrifying moment he is both freefalling into them and lying safe on his own bed bound by nothing by gravity and will.

John doesn't move from the edge. He must be watching. Sherlock can still hear the soft sounds of fist on flesh.

After a while, Sherlock breathes out. "John." He does not dare move. The invisible rope has coiled itself around his mind and his body, and there is something blissful in this, something entirely primal and new. He wants to see how far it can stretch.

"John," he repeats, and then, when nothing is forthcoming, "John, please," and he spreads his legs marginally apart.

" _Jesus_ ," whispers John. "Jesus, Sherlock--" and that is gratifying in a way Sherlock cannot deny.

The bed dips – John settles next to Sherlock, then moves down his body and straddles his thighs. The weight that presses Sherlock into the bed is exactly what he knew it would be, but somehow more than he expected, and the forgotten pain in his ribs snakes back into existence. He breathes open-mouthed for a moment, blinks away the black flecks in his vision.

John runs shaking fingers down Sherlock's back, from his nape down to the dip of his spine. It's an exploring touch, like John is proving to himself that the expanse of Sherlock's back is real, that it takes up measurable space in the real world. It's such a simple sensation, to be caressed like this, but it makes a spiral wind up inside Sherlock, makes him want more, harder, now.

"God, you're beautiful," says John, at length, and Sherlock can't help the breathless laugh that escapes him. He turns his head down, shoves his face into the bedding to muffle any other desperate sounds. There are goose bumps on the back of his neck. John's naked warmth is pressing into the backs of his thighs; sweat is starting to form there, between their bodies.

John's hand travels up to his nape again, then threads through Sherlock's hair, takes a fistful and presses firmly down.

"Stay like this," John says, and takes his hand away.

Sherlock breathes out of the side of his mouth, and stays.

The bed dips and shifts as John gets up and moves to open the bedside table drawer. 

There is a pause, and then John shuts the drawer, moves to the other table.

Sherlock relaxes his hands, turns his head back to the side and breathes openly. Fuck. Necessities. He should have remembered. 

John has paused at the edge of the bed. When Sherlock looks up at him, John meets his eyes; John's body is beautifully flushed, and Sherlock takes in every square millimetre of it that he can see. 

"Um," John says. "Do you-- Um."

Sherlock sighs. "No. I don't have anything." And then, because this might need clarification, "I don't _need_ anything."

John contemplates this. Sherlock closes his eyes and waits for John to stand up, gather his clothes and leave. The mood is obviously broken.

John clears his throat, hesitates for a moment. Then he slides off the bed, walks up to the door, unlocks it, and leaves the room.

He has left his clothes where they lay. And he hasn't closed the door.

Sherlock moans into the bedding. 

He can map John's steps exactly now, and he does. John goes to the bathroom first, looks through the cabinets and discards everything he finds there. He leaves the bathroom. Does a tour around the kitchen.

It does something to Sherlock's gut to know that John is doing this naked. He wants to see what John looks like under the sharp light there. Later. He will see that later.

He knows the exact route John takes when he finally meanders to the corner of the kitchen and finds the can of Vaseline, the one Sherlock had left on the counter next to the glue experiment five days prior.

It was either that or the butter, but the contents of the fridge are too vague for Sherlock to reliably tell if they even have any.

Well, guess it was either that or the glue.

John comes back, shuts and locks the door.

The can lands on the sheets next to Sherlock's side, and John returns to his previous position, straddling Sherlock's thighs. He has lost his erection, so they will need time for him to regain it. Sherlock wonders how John will achieve that; if he will need help.

John is running his hands up and down Sherlock's back again.

"Why do you listen?" he says.

Sherlock's parser has failed once more. He hums a non-answer. He wants John to get on with it.

"You never listen," John continues, stroking gently. "And never-- God, _never_ like this." He leans to the side; he is reaching for the can. "Does death do that to people?" He laughs to himself. "But yours was fake, so I don't get it. Does it even count?"

John's touch leaves, and there is only the press of his seat and thighs. John is working open the can, slicking his fingers. Soon. Very soon. Sherlock draws in a small breath, squeezes his eyes shut. His sensory input has narrowed down to that singular expectation of touch.

"That first night, when you came to me," says John. "You knew where I was. You knew I was there late. So you must have been watching. _Someone_ must have been watching."

Something – the back of John's knuckles, his closed fist – brushes Sherlock's skin. Back and forth, back and forth, and John's thighs move slightly with the rhythm; John is thrusting into his own hand, slicking himself.

"You could have-- ah-- could have gone anywhere to recover. Hell, your brother could have probably set you up in a Swiss clinic. But you came to me."

John lets go of himself, shifts, and Sherlock can feel the tip of John's renewed erection pushing up between his thighs. John is still moving his hips minutely; it's maddening.

"You didn't even know the extent of your injuries," John continues. "You were in pain, but you didn't care. You let me stab you with morphine derivatives like there was no tomorrow, and invited yourself into my house like you had a right to be there. And now my wife--" John pauses, breaks rhythm for a moment. He clears his throat, leans over Sherlock, and starts whispering into his ear. "Now my wife is dead, and you've lured me back in here, and this--" He twists his hips, pushes up, slick, against skin and bone. "We're doing this now, whatever this is, and you don't ever _listen_ , but you do with this, and I _can't_ , and you _know_ , you know _everything_ \--" He leans down, closes his mouth around Sherlock's earlobe and bites.

Sherlock bucks up, once, but he has no leverage. And John is trained; he won't be dislodged. He laughs instead, straightens back up, and runs his hand – warm, slick – down Sherlock's spine and lower, lower still, then cups him where Sherlock is still stubbornly soft between his legs.

Sherlock pushes his face into the covers. He wants to cut off his own air. John's hand feels alien, invasive, but at the same time indescribably good. It's ridiculous, makes no sense. John has touched him before. John has _brought him off_ before. It should be easy now, it's mechanics, friction, pressure, fireworks and white noise, and oh God, his brain isn't working, can't make the simplest decisions--

God, he needs to _sleep_. 

"You're not even hard," observes John. He hums. "You are not doing this for me, so. Are you even doing this for yourself?" He strokes and pulls for a little while, then slides his hand back up and down again, gliding, leaving the slick on Sherlock's skin. Sherlock isn't sure how much is required. John's hands leave again; he is getting more.

"Those things you said you wanted to-- um-- you wanted to try." John touches him again, slicker still, sliding a warm, rough hand with clear intent from Sherlock's tailbone downwards. He stops, thumb rubbing, circling closer and closer; warming, caressing. Sherlock holds his breath.

"I wonder," says John. He stills his hand, feeling out the sensitive flesh under his fingertips. "How many of those things will it take before you get bored?" And then he pushes his thumb in, long and slow.

It's like a punch to the kidneys. The pain is dull, odd, and it doesn't dissipate the way it's supposed to. It seems to fold in on itself, expand, hold, contract, and it feels much closer to violation than it feels to pleasure. It is like their first night, when Sherlock took John in without caution and then couldn't breathe. Sherlock wonders if it's always like this, their geometry not fitting in the right ways because it was not built to fit. He wonders if the difficulty of the challenge is proportional to the level of pleasure once the challenge is mastered. He wonders--

He wonders nothing at all, because John is twisting his thumb, and then pulling it out and pushing it back in, and the motion is sickening, wrong, and too much, it's _too much_ \--

"John," he pants. "John, stop."

He feels the hesitation. He _knows_ it. Even through the haze of pain and mild threads of panic he can feel John hesitating before he stills his hand, and then withdraws his thumb very slowly and very carefully. Some part of Sherlock's brain, the one that still rises above the parts occupied by sensation and need, some part of his brain knows that hesitation, feels kinship to it; had their positions been reversed, John would have found himself in a very different set of circumstances by now.

John huffs out a breath and transfers his hand to Sherlock's hip, splays his slick fingers on Sherlock's skin and holds them there. His other hand is resting in the dip of Sherlock's spine.

They stay like that, for a while. Sherlock breathes. John stays very still. Sherlock can tell John is working to slow down his breathing, to calm down his thundering pulse. He is still fully erect, resting heavy and insistent against the back of Sherlock's left thigh. Sherlock thinks of the circumference of John's thumb, cannot help but make the comparison.

It's impossible. Intellectually Sherlock knows that it's not – he's seen enough evidence on film to know that's it's not, but--

John clears his throat. "All right?" 

Sherlock snorts. He can't help it.

He is not all right. He is in no way or shape or form all right, because this should be simple, like the other things were simple. He should be able to do this, to give John this, let John play it out and direct it, let John say everything he wants to say, everything he would not normally say. But Sherlock is not proficient at this, he is not even approaching _acceptable_.

He feels the tethers breaking. John will think it's his fault. That's what John does.

It can still be salvaged. John's proximity is priority.

Sherlock swallows. "Use my mouth," he says, half into the air and half into the pillow.

John's fingers twitch on his skin, tighten, release. John clears his throat. "What-- um. Are you sure?"

"You heard me, John," says Sherlock.

John holds his hips for a moment, then rises to his knees and tugs at Sherlock's side. Sherlock untangles his arms, turns over underneath John and lies on his back. John crawls up his body until his knees straddle Sherlock's shoulders. He leans over, grabs the footboard with his right hand, and with his left one he guides himself into Sherlock's open mouth. He tastes of Vaseline and salt.

Sherlock fists his hands in the bedding.

He doesn't exactly know what he is expected to do in this position, but he does recall what he did before that resulted in bringing John to orgasm. He closes his mouth, flattens his tongue, applies suction. John makes a tight sound, and starts moving in and out. He transfers his other hand to the footboard and establishes a brisk pace, even and shallow. Sherlock can tell John is holding back, avoids hitting too deep – Sherlock would choke again, and then they would have to stop. It's admirable, Sherlock notes, that John is able to hold back like this. Excellent control of the mechanics.

The keep it up for a while, until Sherlock's mouth begins to hurt. He pushes the pain down – it's par for the course. He wants this.

Eventually, John's thrusts become erratic, and he does start hitting too deep. Sherlock chokes, just a little – and John immediately pulls back and out. Sherlock grabs at the backs of his thighs, rises from the bed to get him back in – but John is already coming, groaning something incoherent, pushing through his own fingers. Some of his semen lands on Sherlock's lips, on his neck. John scoops up the rest with his hand. 

"Christ," John says, and "Oh, oh God, oh Jesus, Sherlock, oh--" He cups himself, sits back and leans against the footboard. He sits there, panting, breathing.

Sherlock breathes with him. He looks up at the ceiling. Then he closes his eyes.

After some time, he feels the bed dip and something warm and wet touch his face; a towel, dipped in water – John is engaging in the ritual of clean-up. Sherlock breathes out and lets himself be caressed.

When John is done, he throws away the towel and runs his warm, clean hands up and down Sherlock's ribs. It's impossible to tell if he's still checking for injuries or if that's just where he wants to touch. Sherlock doesn't open his eyes. His ribs don't hurt anymore. He is relaxed now; apparently it's possible to get there without release. He files this as valuable information. He knows that if he stands up he will be dizzy. He knows that if he falls asleep, he will be fucking Sophie Moran with her blood and intestines running free through his hands.

"That's a new one," says John, from the vicinity of Sherlock's navel.

Sherlock resurfaces to awareness. John's fingers are tracing the scar in his side.

Prague. Sherlock stifles a hysterical laugh. God, there is truly no way out of this. Nothing he can do about what he's already done.

He clears his throat. "I got shot," he says. The admission sounds strangely flat, stripped of its adornments of blood and gore.

"Yes," says John, low. "I can see that." Then he touches his tongue to the scar and Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath. John laughs. "Easy now. Shhh." Sherlock exhales and settles down.

John kisses him there for a while; soft, non-ticklish touching of lips against the vulnerable stretch of skin between Sherlock's side and his belly. Then John's mouth slides down, over the bone of Sherlock's hip, to the crease of his thigh and into his groin. John puts his face there, and inhales, against all reason, and then helps himself with his hand and takes all of Sherlock's soft flesh into his mouth.

"Oh," Sherlock says, and makes an aborted move towards John's hair, but realises John might not like it – Sherlock doesn't know what John likes – so he pulls back and grabs fistfuls of the sheets instead. "Ohhh," he says again, because it's an amazing sensation, not unlike being immersed in warm water, except there is suction and pressure and teeth-- and oh _God, teeth_ , and no wonder that in the animal kingdom this act is almost exclusively confined to humans (with the exception of bonobos and, notably, Chinese fruit bats), because there is nothing in this that speaks fight or fear or instinct, no, this – this is _trust_ , because otherwise it's all teeth and claws and death, and--

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stills. John's hand is pressing down on his stomach. He realises he's been bucking up.

"Calm down," says John. There is a smile in his voice. Sherlock's eyes are shut too tight to see it. He can hear it, though. "It's okay," says John. "Let me do this." He runs a soothing hand along Sherlock's thigh and then sucks Sherlock in again.

And oh God, it's torture. John's lips slide down, and down, until John's nose touches Sherlock's belly, and then they slide back up, warm and tight, and repeat, repeat, repeat, and Sherlock realises with a start that this repetition _means_ something, so he lifts his head and blinks his eyes open, and looks down, and oh--

He is hard now, at last, and John takes him down, _all the way down_ , like it's nothing, like butter, like it's just another skill he possesses and dispenses at will, like the way he holds his gun, effortless, like the way he charms women, like it's just something John does, every day, and he chooses to do it now, like this, easy, and to _Sherlock_ \--

"John," Sherlock whispers. "John, please--"

And John smiles; Sherlock can see the corner of his mouth twitch where his lips are pulled tight, and the smile is benevolent, victorious, like he's done something that deserves a reward. He tightens his hands on Sherlock's hips, and he slides down and touches his nose to Sherlock's belly again, and then again, again, small, tight little moves--

Sherlock bows his head, chin to chest, and lets his hands do what they will. And they do, they grab John's hair and pull, savage, hold John's head between Sherlock's legs – makes no difference, John has demonstrated this quite aptly just now – and Sherlock's hips move, shove up and up and up, and a sound makes it out of his clenched throat at last, the tension in him contracts, holds at the edge of pain for a moment, and then spills, cresting and crashing over him, rendering him blind and deaf and blissfully, so blissfully _empty_.

He lets go. He falls backwards, hits the bed on a soft undulation of springs. From far away, he can hear coughing and a low string of expletives, but the white noise rises above the world and drowns it all out.

*

When he wakes up, it's half past three o'clock in the morning, and John is not in the flat. Sherlock has slept for eleven hours, on top of the covers, unmoving, naked, and absolutely dreamless.


	7. Chapter 7

In the flat on Montague Street, Mycroft broke down the door, turned on all the lights in the room, tore off his suit jacket and performed CPR for sixteen minutes until the ambulance arrived and the paramedics lifted him bodily off his brother and set him in the corner with an oxygen mask.

Sherlock learned about that two weeks later, when he was fully cognisant again, and complaining of being bed-ridden to a mildly worried and very annoyed Lestrade. The thought of Mycroft breaking down anything was ridiculous at best, and his brother had the proclivity to be overdramatic, so mocking him seemed to be the best self-defence – until he actually saw Mycroft's face, briefly, in some unrelated footage on the telly, a recording of recent political events. He shut up after that.

There were no flowers in the room, but it was a single and a staff of well-paid doctors and nurses were watching Sherlock 24/7 and being very obvious at pretending they weren't.

The day after he woke up, a box of Belgian chocolates appeared on the wheel-away tray, wrapped in a length of rope with a knot that made sure none of the nurses or doctors surmised it had been intended for them.

Sherlock took the box, opened the knot and counted the chocolates.

Fourteen. 

Fourteen more days on his chart.

He contemplated the chocolates. Weighted shame against reason.

He ate them all in three hours.

*

Sherlock does not care for funerals that much, not unless they offer an opportunity to look at the body in the open casket and deduce something about the manner of their death that the autopsy didn't manage to show and the post-mortem make-up didn't manage to hide.

But proximity to John is priority, so Sherlock shaves and dresses and gets a cab to Blenheim Terrace, where he makes it stop just several doors down, because John won't notice it anyway.

John emerges from the loathsome flat in a black suit, polished shoes and the black jacket with asymmetrical shoulder pads. The jacket is open. The suit has been bought recently. There is a single white rose in the lapel, tucked in there with the degree of care that speaks volumes about the circumstances under which John-- 

Oh.

No. Not John alone, no, Sherlock corrects himself, John and _Mary, together_ , bought this particular suit, picked it out of the line-up of cheap funeral suits so that it would match John's height and build. They picked the shoes next, black and shiny. Mary bought the silk rose. She stuck it behind the bathroom mirror at their flat, so it would look upon John when he brushed his teeth, when he shaved in the morning, when he went to sleep every night--

Sherlock blinks.

 _Ohhh_. So that's what it was.

He watches John walk down the steps and get into a cab. It peels off the curb, and Sherlock stands in the street, looking at nothing, feeling the threads combine into something new, something fascinating.

A firework of a woman, said Lestrade. Twirled John around her little finger in days. Made him forget all about Sherlock, bottle up his grief, don his uniform and get married on a December afternoon.

And then she took him on one last adventure.

Sherlock smiles.

How long since she told him? Because she obviously told him: diagnosed, metastasized, incurable. How many months to live? Three? Six?

Sherlock is certain Mary loved John, with as much as she understood of love – the damn pictures were clear enough in that regard. But if you love someone, why would you prolong the agony of watching them die? Why would you celebrate it, prepare for it, get dressed to look good in your coffin together?

_I am going to die soon, and you need to look your best when you say goodbye to me. Here, take this rose as the symbol of my affection--_

With a sudden, fervent intensity, Sherlock wishes he could have met her. He wishes he took the time to visit her in the hospital, in the hours of John's absences there, just to look at her, just to _see_. 

Why did Mycroft not _say_ anything?

Ah. Stupid. Of course. He sent pictures. Oh, Sherlock, you see, but you do not observe.

He hovers at the edges of the cemetery when the funeral party arrives. He stands on the side-lines for the whole dreadful thing, an hour and a half of song, speech and murmuring to a higher being that isn't there anymore than Mary is there.

John is a small black presence amongst the black crowd; Mary's mother its centrepiece. She displaces the objects around her; John has been pushed to the fringes.

Did Mary take after her mother? She most certainly did.

When the party relocates to Mary's flat for the family gathering, Sherlock has seen enough. He heads back to Baker Street, where the third folder is waiting for him on the table, unopened.

The third case. The last one. This must be better than a birthday present. There is most certainly danger; there is mortal peril if there is only one person involved.

It will be perfect.

*

The case is not perfect. Sherlock studies the contents of the folder, laid out in bits and pieces before him, dissected under the white light on the kitchen table. There are robberies, extortion, an occasional murder. A flat in Farnborough. A shipyard worker who doesn't like to change his shifts. Fragments and slivers of a puzzle that has not yet finished forming in his mind. Even gluing this together is a three-cigarette problem, and he indulges freely; he's relocated the Buckingham Palace ashtray to the kitchen chair.

He calls for Mrs Hudson to make tea, but Mrs Hudson is still out (attended the funeral, went shopping after), and the flat is empty, so he stands up and makes tea himself. 

Two hours later, he's finished the tea, gone through the eighth cigarette, and still the pieces don't assemble the way they should. Instead, his mind circles back to John like a merry-go-round: John walking naked under the white light in the kitchen; John, searching the bathroom, scouring the counters for something to enable him to satisfy the base need of his body, of Sherlock's body, to possess and be possessed, to be close to another living human being.

Sherlock crushes the cigarette butt in the ashtray and presses his fists into his eye sockets, hard.

God, does it ever stop being like this?

He breathes through his nose. Takes stock of himself.

He has eaten. He drank approximately one point five litres of fluids. He has slept: eleven hours immediately after sex with John, and then three more after relocating under the covers. He has exercised by walking around the cemetery grounds. He has indulged in his reacquired habit. He does not need Irene to guide him through the motions – by all accounts, he should be able to function flawlessly by now.

And yet.

Maybe it's the case. Maybe Mycroft left a clue out of it, on purpose.

Maybe, God forbid, he wants Sherlock to ask.

No, that would not be playing fair. And Mycroft will play fair. For as long as they both remember what happened in cell 233 with Jim, Mycroft will always play fair.

Or will he?

"I'm missing something," Sherlock says, to the empty flat. "I'm missing something, John."

*

He arrives at Blenheim Terrace and stands at the foot of the stairs for some time before he comes up to knock. The family gathering wound down two hours ago; the parents packed up and drove off. Mrs Hudson came home, unloaded the groceries and brought a bag up to fill Sherlock's fridge – Sherlock tuned out her worried tone and _John_ , and _beautiful service_ , and _oh that poor woman_ , put on his coat and left.

John opens the door. He is still wearing the funeral suit. The rose is still in the lapel. He looks tired. He would be, Sherlock thinks, after a day like this. Dealing with unpleasant people makes Sherlock irritated; that's why he keeps the contact to an absolute minimum.

"We have a case, John," he says. "Extortion, murder, mystery. All very dangerous. You need to change into normal clothes."

John opens his mouth, and blinks at him. Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

"Jesus," says John. "How are you even real?"

He turns round and goes back inside. He doesn't close the door.

Sherlock hangs his coat on the hook in the hallway and goes to make tea in the kitchen (where John punched him and punched him and then stitched him together again) while John goes up to his bedroom to change. The kitchen has been cleaned, the furniture in the sitting room (where John brought him off with his hand and then put that hand on himself and watched), the furniture has been moved back to its usual spots, although not exactly. There are flowers, standing here and there in non-matching vases. The mixed smell of pie, tea and human sweat lingers in the air. Sherlock opens the window, sets a cup on the table for John, and drinks his own tea, looking out at the street.

The sense of calm that comes from being in proximity to John is already taking effect. There is a connection to Mycroft in the Third Folder case, that's why the missing clues are so obvious. There is something Mycroft concealed after all, perhaps it needs a higher security clearance. Still, there is a person behind the crimes, and that person needs to be identified and found. That much is clear from what the folder does _not_ contain.

Footsteps. Sherlock looks up. John is standing in the kitchen doorway, dressed in his jeans and the old cream-coloured jumper (Sherlock was hoping John still owned that one).

"You made tea," John says. His expression is contemplative, and Sherlock can immediately tell John is thinking about Sherlock's mouth. So Sherlock starts thinking about John's mouth in turn. He can't help it.

"Obviously," he says, and John huffs out a laugh.

"One for the road, then?" says John.

For certain values of one, thinks Sherlock.

John sits at the table, folds his hands around the cup, takes a drink and smiles with his mouth closed. 

"You never actually asked me, you know?"

"Hm?"

"If I wanted to move back to your flat."

Blink. What? Sherlock rewinds. "Nonsense. Of course I did. Twice."

John shakes his head. He is still smiling. "Nope. You just said I should. You never asked if I _wanted_."

There is something odd about John's smile. Sherlock again is unable to parse.

"Semantics, John," he says, frowning. "You know what I meant."

"No," says John. "No, I don't." He meets Sherlock's eyes, and his expression turns serious. "I don't know why you're doing this. Any of it, actually, Sherlock. I have no fucking clue, you see. Because my brain? Not wired like yours. Just an average brain. Needs average answers."

Sherlock sets his tea on the table. Seems this conversation is best had sitting down. He sits, mirrors John's posture with his hands folded around his own cup.

"Doing what," he says. "Finish a sentence, John."

John looks at him. "Like you don't know."

Sherlock sits in silence, hands folded.

John scoffs. "You're really going make me spell it out for you?"

Sherlock sits.

"Fine." John twists his mouth. He takes a breath, starts to speak. Pauses. Changes his mind several times. 

It's interesting to watch, the dance of hesitation and intent on John's face. Sherlock can see the thought process as clearly as if John laid it out to him on a whiteboard. It's disarming, and a little bit hopeless, the way John tries and tries to put a mask on, and he can't.

"When I first asked," John says finally. "Back at the flat-- I wasn't-- You didn't say anything when I-- You just-- Why did you--" He stops again, flexes his hands into fists, relaxes. "God, this is ridiculous, isn't it?"

Sherlock waits. John looks away.

Sherlock takes a sip of his tea. It's good tea. Organic. Fair trade. He will have to take the can back to his flat, along with John's things. Later.

"That's exactly why I don't do this," he says.

"Don't do what?" says John.

"Relationships," says Sherlock. "Too much bother. Complications, dependencies, _feelings_. Tedious, all the little problems. The physical aspect, now that can be great, can be fantastic, but that's not enough, it's never enough, is it? People must always riddle it all with _talking_."

John's eyebrows knit together.

Sherlock waves his hand. "But by all means, John, help yourself. I promise to answer your questions to the best of my ability." He smiles, fixes John with a politely expectant look.

John sets his jaw. He doesn't say anything for a while. "Fine," he says at last. "Fine. If that's all the same to you." He pauses, thinks it over, and it's plain to see when he makes the decision. 

"Why do you-- Why do you _submit_ yourself to this, Sherlock? To me."

Sherlock keeps his face neutral. "Clarify submit."

"Clarify-- Hah, yeah, okay." John takes a breath. "It's-- It's not like you're _interested_ in any of this. You've never been-- You just-- I expected you to fight this every step of the way. God, that night at your flat..." John laughs a little, licks his lips. Sherlock looks at his mouth. He thinks about kissing. "What I did-- When I asked. You just _dropped_ , right there, no questions asked. You just _obeyed_. God, Sherlock, you _never_ do that. And it was great, don't get me wrong, it was _really_ great, but-- I just-- I expected you to laugh at me, you know. I honest to God expected you to just laugh. And to chew me out for being an idiot. I _wanted_ that." He looks down at his cup. "But you didn't. You-- What you did, that was-- That was _amazing_ , it really was, but then-- Then you wouldn't let me touch you, and God, that look on your face-- Sherlock, I shouldn't have, but I _made_ you do it, and I'm _sorry_ \--"

He stops. Sucks in a breath. He has made his hand into a fist again.

Sherlock ponders. For some reason, John assumes lack of consent. Is this guilt? Shame?

Exhaustion, certainly; seeping through in his speech, curling his shoulders inwards and down. Incoherence is not the best means to a productive conversation. Sherlock leans forward.

"I never do what I don't want to do, John," he says, very clearly.

John looks at him. Searches his face, because obviously words are not enough. So predictable.

Sherlock sighs. "Have I not presented you with ample evidence of my free will since our first encounter?"

John scoffs. "Evidence. That's rich, after last night."

"Last night is a perfect example, John."

"Yes it is, isn't it?"

John is looking him with guilt in his eyes again. God, this is so tiresome. Stages of grief are there for a reason. Mourning period is there for a reason. And Sherlock has messed it up; messed John up, threw a wrench into the nice, ordered progression of things.

Bah, if only he weren't so selfish.

"John," he says. "If you think you _made_ me do anything, you are deluding yourself. And we both know you are not that stupid."

"Oh yeah?" John laughs. It's a small, bitter laugh. Sherlock doesn't like it. "Sherlock, you can't stand being close to me any longer than it takes for me to get off. You're not going to get hard unless I'm actually physically pulling it out of you. You won't let me-- Which is fine, you know, you don't have to bottom, it's just-- It's just if that's what you call evidence--" John bites his lip, looks away. There is something terrible in his face, something broken that Sherlock does not understand. It pulls at Sherlock's mind, somewhere deep and strange where he doesn't want to go. 

He looks at John's hands. They are steady, elbows resting on the table.

John's hands, unlike his face, betray nothing. It's not a matter of severed nerve endings – his right hand is as immobile as the left – but it's an interesting dichotomy; Sherlock will have to investigate it.

"I'm familiar with," says John. "With... _lengths_ people go to, you know. Eggshells people walk on, around me. I just never expected to get this from you."

Sherlock sits there, staring at John's fingers around the painted ceramic. His thoughts split, easy, between the steadiness of John's hands and the tone of John's voice.

John thinks this is pity. John thinks Sherlock doesn't want this. Sherlock rewinds, fast; what he did, what he said. Nothing jumps out, but words could be misinterpreted; he has encountered this with John, before. Erections, apparently, are important; Sherlock will have to adjust – there are ways he can prepare beforehand, if physical evidence is what John needs to be reassured this is mutual. Penetration, too, he will have to finish what he started; he should not have bowed out when he did, it was just so-- No matter. He can fix this.

"John," he says. "My obedience has nothing to do with your present circumstance. Neither it is because your will is superior to mine. Stop fooling yourself. I told you, I don't do anything I don't want to do." He looks up, meets John's eyes. "I'd invite you to try."

A shudder that goes through John's body is almost imperceptible, but Sherlock can see it. He did not miscalculate, then: John would very much like to try. It's fascinating, this battle of propriety and hunger in John's mind. How does John not go insane from this conflict?

John clears his throat. "So that's your answer, then," he says. "You do this because you want to."

"Yes. Obviously." Sherlock lets it hang in the air for a bit. "And because you do."

John looks at him.

"We complement each other, John. Our needs are compatible. Must I repeat myself?"

"Compatible." John is nodding, in the way he does when he doesn't agree. "Right. Of course. And to think, here, I was expecting an actual answer."

Sherlock sighs. He loathes negotiating. He'd much rather bury his face in this hideous old jumper of John's, wrap himself in the old, familiar smell, and let John do whatever he wants with the rest of his body. God, how good that would be.

"Don't try to rope me into a confession, John," he says. "I told you. I don't-- I'm not proficient at this."

"Proficient?"

"You might not like what I say."

"Ah."

John looks down at his cup. Somewhere, in translation, the questions he wanted to ask got lost, or else Sherlock has not provided answers that _matter_.

God, Sherlock hates this. Purity of intent; is that really so hard to achieve?

He straightens up. Folds his hands. "My motives are important to you," he says. "You want to know where you stand."

The look on John's face is wary. Somewhere there is a question that Sherlock must now guess.

Sherlock thinks it over. How much of this affliction, this chemical defect that John understands as love, how much does Sherlock need to convey to make the tethers strong enough to keep John close to him? Does he need to pretend he is impaired by it to make his confession believable? Would it make John more confident that he is in control of his own direction? Does John need this, to assure himself of his own worth, of his own value to Sherlock? Or does he merely need confirmation that Sherlock is not intending to leave, do another stunt, another number? That he won't go shopping with John for a funeral suit, that he won't recite a living will into his ear via mobile? 

Does John need to know he is safe?

No, thinks Sherlock, because Mary was who she was, and Sherlock is who he is and John deserves nothing less.

He lays his hands flat on the table. He looks at his fingernails when he speaks. 

"The night I came to you at the clinic, I had tracked down the last of Moriarty's lieutenants. Sophie Moran. You saw her file. She was planning to assassinate a member of the government, disguise it in a bombing attack on public transportation. She was days away from executing this plan. Had she succeeded-- Let's just say the 7/7, Moscow, Madrid, they would all pale in comparison. But she never got that far. She never got out of that factory in Eastleigh. We fought. She lost. And I killed her."

He looks up. John is watching him from the other side of the table. The cup sits in front of him, abandoned.

"I never killed anyone before, John," says Sherlock. "But I took her knife and I put it into her heart and she died. And I didn't realise-- I didn't realise it would be so _easy_."

John flinches a little at that, as Sherlock expected he would. But he doesn't say anything.

Sherlock nods. "And you," he says. "You knew what I did. You took one look at me and you knew. I must have been in shock. Was I in shock? It's hard to tell, you know, from my perspective."

John keeps looking at him, but he stays mercifully quiet.

Sherlock nods again. "And then, when we came to Baker Street, together, you-- You just took it, John. You knew what I did, and you put it out there, and then you took it from me and you made it _bearable_." He folds his hands around his cup again, tight. He meets John's eyes. "Do you see?"

_I can't sleep anymore if you're not around._

John sits in silence for a little while. He doesn't notice this, but he is worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. He sighs, rubs one hand over his eyes, his mouth.

"It isn't _easy_ , Sherlock," he says at last. "And I don't think-- I don't think I can really, you know, _help_. With any of this. It's-- This is not how you heal."

Sherlock nods. "You mean sex."

John blinks. He looks startled, like the word in Sherlock's mouth is foreign, forbidden. And then he blushes, which is marvellous, and logical – sympathetic nervous system vasodilation in response to thinking about items of intimate nature, to which he cannot react in a physical fashion.

"I know that, John," Sherlock tells him. "I'm not an idiot." It's his turn to lick his lips. John's eyes snap to them like magnets. Oh, Sherlock thinks. Hook, line and sinker.

And there it is, right there, and Sherlock can see it, like a landing strip lighted up for a plane at night. He remembers the night in this very kitchen, when John stitched him up (he will have a scar from this; clean and beautifully sewn), and Sherlock uncorked that anger and let it out, let it lash out at him, cleanly and beautifully provoked with the language of violence. 

He has learned a thing or two since then.

He considers John's choice of words.

"You told your therapist about us," he says.

John looks at him sharply. This is John's ‘how do you know' look. Sherlock doesn't have time for this. Two times since Sherlock came back; John had time for three sessions, but went twice. The day after he first put his hand on Sherlock, _inside_ Sherlock's body, he didn't go. Too embarrassed; afraid he would be too transparent. He was right.

"You didn't tell her about me specifically, that is obvious, but you did ask. Did you ask her, John?"

Ask her what, is in John's face, clear as day.

"You asked her how much time before you can-- be with someone else. How much is _healthy_. What did she say?"

John stays silent. Sherlock can feel the anger rising, thrumming underneath his skin. Sherlock knows just which bruise to step on.

"She's a therapist," says Sherlock. "So of course she won't give you _advice_. She'll just ask more stupid questions. She asked you what you thought of as healthy, why you used that specific word. Is that the word you used? Or did you say ‘proper'. Or ‘required'. Or--"

"Sherlock," says John. His tone says _Warning_. His eyes say _Please_. Sherlock ploughs on. The landing lights are blinking.

"You said healthy. You don't think this is good, what we're doing. So you made up this little fantasy, that this is all your fault, that I didn't want any of it, so when it inevitably goes wrong, it only means you are being rightfully punished for your transgressions."

"Sherlock--"

"Why can't you stand the thought that I want this? You touch me with such disbelief, John. You marvel at my very existence, why? Am I not a human being like yourself? Am I not allowed to have desires? Why is it so difficult to believe that I can--"

 _Oh_.

Oh dear Lord.

There it is.

John is watching him with a new sharpness in his eyes. God forbid John should _see_ \--

Sherlock touches a hand to his mouth. He can feel the words there, burning against his lips. God, so close. So close. Did he think it? Did he _mean_ it?

Dangerous, this. Chemical reactions at play, you can't control what happens. Best not to go there. The landing lights blink out, and he is left in the darkness.

"Sherlock?" John is watching him. He is expecting Sherlock to finish the sentence. Sherlock presses his mouth tight.

He can't do this. It's unbearable, to have to go through this; the antidote to your deepest pain right there within your reach, and yet unreachable, because the currency to buy it is _words_ , and the words that are borne of a chemical reaction cannot be trusted, and therefore they cannot be given with the expectation of trust. What can be given instead is everything else, pure and carnal and deep, but it might in turn not be _accepted_ without the words to pay the fare. Sherlock feels nauseous. How do people stand this? It's enough to claw out your eyes. 

"Farnborough," he says.

John blinks. "What?"

Sherlock stands up. "I'm going to Farnborough." And then steps away from the table, and he goes to the hallway to get his coat.

He's putting it on when John inevitably follows. He stands in the kitchen doorway while Sherlock winds his scarf round his throat.

Sherlock looks up at him. "Are you coming?"

John doesn't say anything for a while. There is defeat in his eyes when he finally nods.

"Yeah. Yeah, let me get my jacket."

Sherlock opens the door and steps out without looking back.

*

The flat in Farnborough is a dead end. A family of squatters has been living there for a month, well-settled and not bothered by anyone. Sherlock takes one look and knows all the clues had been buried and re-buried too many times to count. He turns to go; he will have to take another look at the papers.

John is talking as they come down the stairs, and Sherlock stops.

"What did you say?"

"I said nice sound system. I mean, for such a crappy flat."

"Sound system?"

Sherlock runs back up the steps.

There is no sound system, but John is right. The wiring goes all the way through the rooms and to the entryway doorframe. Sherlock follows the wires, digs into the plaster, pulls the pieces out.

"This is not a sound system, John," he says. "It's a burglar alarm. And a surveillance setup, all in one. Mycroft's people didn't rip it all out when they searched the flat, left in some pieces. Look at the wires--"

He gasps. Oh, that is too easy.

"What?" says John.

The wire is not standard. None of the shops Sherlock knows in the area sell it. If the people who installed this didn't bother to buy any, they must have had a convenient supply. Sherlock whips out his mobile; a quick search confirms the hypothesis; a quick call to a cargo ship worker who owes him narrows down the source. A map search finds the location.

"We're going to Gravesend," says Sherlock.

John is following him down the stairs. "What's in Gravesend?"

"Something Mycroft missed."

*

In the cab between Farnborough and Gravesend (a fidgety half an hour, and Mycroft still hasn't blocked that credit card; it must mean something), John turns his head from the road and looks at Sherlock, who is looking out at the night. 

"You said proficient," John says.

"Hm," says Sherlock. Maybe John will get bored and go away.

John isn't letting up. "You said you weren't proficient. Why proficient? Like this isn't something you--practice."

Sherlock turns from the window, pretends to check his mobile. "Confessions aren't something you practice, John. They belong in art, not in everyday language."

John nods the disagreeing nod. "I didn't mean just the confession." He bites his lip. "Yesterday. What you-- offered. That was-- um-- that was-- that was a _lot_ , Sherlock. I understand if it was-- um-- too much."

Sherlock's insides twist. He feels sick. He pushes down the feeling.

He heaves a sigh, Mycroft style, with extra helping of drama. 

"Must you really be that pedestrian, John?" John raises his eyebrows, so Sherlock shoots him a disapproving look. "Am I to understand we will now make it a rule of our relationship to dissect all of our sexual failures the day after?"

John blinks, then laughs. "Yeah, not a problem for me, you see." He points a finger at Sherlock. "And you're deflecting."

Sherlock turns back to the window. "I'll leave you to your presumptions."

*

The warehouse in Gravesend is not a dead end.

Or it is, depending on one's understanding of _end_.

Sherlock picks the locks and they slither inside without difficulty. Early evening provides a cover of darkness, and, presumably, the element of surprise. They wander in the empty spaces for a while, among crates of decommissioned electrical equipment from the previous two decades; ABB wind turbine engines, boxes of cables and connectors, rolls of wire matching the wire at the Farnborough flat; all of it sleeping under layers of dust.

They walk half the length of the warehouse without seeing or hearing a single soul, and it's thrilling, this, doing this with John at his side. Here, everything else fades to the background, and all that matters is the case, the mystery, and their synchronous breaths as they creep through the darkness to find out what lies at the other end. This, above all, is what Sherlock has missed.

They are almost at the end of the hall (and his patience) when Sherlock catches a glimpse of light and movement out of the corner of his eye.

Gun against the back of his head is an unmistakable touch; he has learned to recognise it very well in the last year and a half.

"Hands where I can see ‘em."

German? Austrian? Swiss? He needs to say more for Sherlock to reliably tell.

The gun nudges against his skull. There is another shadow behind him in the dark, and he hears John's soft grunt of pain. Back, between the shoulder blades.

"Walk," says the... Austrian. Yes. The clarity is unmistakable.

Sherlock walks.


	8. Chapter 8

Two years into wearing suits, Mycroft came back home for Christmas, shut the door to his study and stayed there for eleven hours without answering the door to anyone. Had he brought back a woman, it would be conceivable that Mycroft could be having sex – but there was no one and it would be rather inconvenient for a lady to climb the two stories over the Gooseberry bush in the garden.

At eleven hours sixteen minutes Sherlock picked the lock and let himself in.

Mycroft was sitting in his armchair, back to the fireplace, face to the window. He was resting his chin on his hand. His tie was loosened, his cuffs unbuttoned. His suit jacket was thrown on the bed. Mycroft never threw things on the bed.

Sherlock pulled up a chair and set the 27-year-old Kinclaith on the coffee table. Mycroft looked at him with distaste, but he took the tumbler when Sherlock poured. They drank.

"How many?" asked Sherlock. It was the only thing he was missing. The failure was written all over Mycroft's fingers, face, back, the curl of his hair. Somewhere, somehow, he'd made the wrong call.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "What does it matter." His voice was gentle. Tired.

Sherlock poured another round. Father would not miss the bottle. "It matters to you."

Mycroft drank slowly. "Forty six casualties. Over two hundred wounded." He looked at the window, at the grey sky. "Three operatives down."

Sherlock felt it like a spike, an actual physical sensation. The dots connected, and he could not stop the shiver. He took a sip to mask it, but Mycroft had already noticed.

"Yes," Mycroft said, turning his face back to the window. An expression of infinite boredom. "She's dead."

They drank until the sky turned dark, the bottle turned empty, and Sherlock's body turned numb. Mycroft's eyes were shining with unnatural light, but his faculties were unperturbed and his voice perfectly even as he set his empty tumbler on the table, leaned in until his lips were close to Sherlock's ear, and he whispered in that god-awful, colourless voice (the voice that Sherlock remembered and labelled and stowed away in an empty room all by itself): he said that he would let them all die, happily let them die all over again, if only but for that one person who did not have to be there; that he would kill them, tear them to pieces himself, but this wasn't how the world worked, and there was a lesson in this, and he'd better remember, because everyone dies and in the end it's simple as that, and caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.

*

The Austrians take them into a large, brightly-lit office carved out of the warehouse space on its southern end. The door is soundproof. There are no windows. A wall of filing cabinets, two long tables and several chairs make up the furniture. Three people are already in the room: two women and a heavily armed man. When Sherlock and John are pushed inside, the younger woman and the man turn round to look; the older woman does not move.

On the left side of the room, floor space had been cleaned out and chairs moved out of the way. There, wrapped in a bag of translucent plastic and hanging from the rafters by a rope fastened around the ankles, is a body of a middle-aged office worker. The bag is swinging minutely, as if the force that moved it had been recently applied. The bottom of the bag hangs low, filled with blood like a cup.

Time slows. Or else Sherlock's brain enters the natural overdrive that comes when he's experiencing a mind-shift. For this, he does not need stimulants. His knees hit the floor, prompted by a kick in the shins, and the time it takes to cross the distance between standing and kneeling is time enough to rearrange his view of the world.

The timeline in his brain, the one where he projects himself to a quiet cottage in Sussex, surrounded by beehives, burns away and melts like a roll of old film.

"I will forget your face," he says very quickly at the woman who did not turn round. "If you know who I am, you know I can do that."

It takes forever for her to move, and when she does, it's just barely. She looks at something in the corner of the room, something irrelevant, and smiles – she's in her fifties, used to be incredibly beautiful, and even the lines on her face remember that; short hair, natural, completely grey; delicate, fragile fingers, very well cared-for; expensive wardrobe, not a speck of blood or dust; very comfortable shoes on flat soles – she smiles, eyes unfocused and elsewhere, and Sherlock realises, with astonishment he did not expect he could still feel, that Klaudia von Herder is blind.

"Ah, that's very well said, Mr Sherlock Holmes." Her voice is vibrant and strong. "But we both know I can't do that now, don't we?"

Three men, heavily armed, two behind him, one in front. The younger woman, standing to the side, combat potential unknown. John – beautiful, solid, reliable John – a liability.

Sherlock calculates, and the chance of survival is less than 5%. There is no conveniently booby-trapped safe to get them out of this one.

A gamble, then. If he reaches into his pocket, he can press the speed dial in less than it takes the men to--

_Blam!_

Later, his brain will tell him that he processed the shot before he heard it, but Sherlock knows that's an illusion. The kinetic shock propels him to the floor, and he lies there, aware of John's voice, screaming something behind him, and then cutting off (blunt force trauma to the side of the head).

Everything is moving very slowly. There is no pain. Sherlock is aware of his own mouth, open, but no sound is coming out. The shot rings clear in his ears, multiplies in echoes through the open door of the office, between the engines and wires and dust.

His phone has clattered across the floor and away, under the tables, like a bolt of lightning.

When all is quiet again, the comfortable shoes step in front of his face, and a soft, warm hand touches his cheek, curls a lock of hair behind his ear.

"My apologies for this, Mr Holmes. But it is unadvisable to make sudden moves in the presence of my boys. They are so protective of me, you see."

The hand travels behind his ear, and then back to his face. Fingers slide gently over his cheek, nose, eyes, down to his mouth and chin.

Klaudia von Herder is looking at him.

He looks at her in return. His vision is going softly white at the edges. There is still no pain.

It must be very difficult to be a weapons designer when you can only rely on four senses; the logistics must be exponentially more complex. There is sculpting, virtual reality and 3D printers, but they only go so far if you don't know _precisely_ what you want to do. And yet here she is, present and in command, not only maintaining a successful criminal operation, but managing to stay off the radar of Mycroft, no less.

It was her gun, Sherlock realises, on Sophie Moran's table. Her design that Sophie had been assembling. A customer, then? A friend? He looks for hereditary markers – there are none. He looks for the twist of the mouth that signifies revenge – there is nothing.

Her fingertips touch his lips. He keeps very still.

"Hmmm," she says. "A thing of beauty, aren't you." The fingers leave him. She stands up. "That is so very sad. Is that John Watson?"

John is still behind him. Sherlock can hear him breathing.

"I--" Sherlock starts. His voice comes out a whisper.

"I can introduce myself, thank you very much," says John. There is _fury_ in his voice; pure, magnificent hatred.

"Oh, that you can," says Klaudia. "I heard about you. Tell me, Doctor Watson, how much pain can a human body withstand before it starts shutting down?"

A jolt goes through Sherlock; a path lights up in his brain. He didn't see revenge. He didn't see hereditary markers. He saw nothing, because nothing was precisely what Klaudia von Herder wanted him to see. Sherlock is self-diagnosed, and though perhaps not accurately, but he now recognises the perfect specimen before him.

She smiles, like she's sensed his thoughts. Or perhaps he has made a sound; he doesn't know.

"People lie," she says to John. "And there are so many different shades of lies, you know. Big lies, little lies, white lies. Lies to cover more lies. Lies that are not lies at all, just people forgetting something. Or simply not knowing, and trying to hide it. I like to catalogue them. It's a... shall we say, a little hobby of mine."

"Take up fishing," says John, and it sounds like _fuck off_.

"Hah, if only." She steps to the table, picks up something. Flawless coordination; perfect spatial memory. The young woman watches her carefully. No hereditary marks there, either. An apprentice?

"I don't see the world quite like you do, Doctor Watson. But I see it better. I _hear_ it better. That's why my hobby is so perfectly suited to my talents."

She has picked up a scalpel. Sherlock sees it glint in the fluorescent light. Oh, that is perfect – simple, but effective. John must see it, too.

"I experiment," says Klaudia. "I want to know all shades of lying. They all sound so different, you know? There are histories behind what people sound like when they're trying to lie to me--"

John laughs. God, he laughs. Sherlock can hear him through a thin veil of mist. How much blood is he losing?

"Right," John says. "That's just brilliant. Sherlock, can you please, please, just once, pick one that isn't completely bonkers? I'm really tired of dealing with crazy old bitches."

She raises her hand. It's very fast. Sherlock can see her – he doesn't see the man the gesture was meant for, but it must be the one who was about to hit John just now.

John ploughs on, undeterred. "Oh, you like dirty talk, crazy bitch? I don't know who you are, but it's so fucking nice to meet you, you have no idea. I really missed having my teeth knocked out today. Why don't we try some more? Let me stand up and then we'll have fun. Or are your boys too tired from wanking each other all day to try me on?"

 _John_ , Sherlock thinks, and moves his mouth, useless. _John, what are you doing?_

But oh, he knows exactly what John is doing. John can only see the superficial – the bag in the corner, the interrogation, the efficiency of violence; Sherlock's immediate surrender. How much more John can glean from that, Sherlock isn't sure – not without looking at John's face – but it's enough that John has decided to make himself a target.

Von Herder is contemplating John's words. The smile is still on her face. She turns her head to the younger woman – assistant, no combat training; logistics? – and the younger woman steps up closer with a click of heels, touches lips to Klaudia's ear, whispers, and Klaudia raises her hand and brushes it against the younger woman's cheek with such tenderness it takes Sherlock's breath away – lover, of course, how could he not see that? The age difference, misleading. The distance. The context. Unexpected place to find this. So unexpected, oh--

"Very well," says Klaudia. "I can afford playing with you for a bit." She steps away, motions towards the wall, and Sherlock now notices a door there. Terror grips him, forces the air out of his lungs.

No. No, John, _John, no._

They grab him by the shoulders – and God, now it hurts, it hurts _so much_ , his right arm is _on fire_ – and they drag him. He kicks, but he doesn't have the strength to fight them. Not enough adrenaline, not enough hope. He cranes his neck. John is kneeling, watching him with one very clear blue eye. Half of his face is covered in blood.

They propel him forward and he hits the floor. The door slams behind him and it's dark.

He breathes in. He is dizzy. The walls are close. The floor smells of cigarettes and old bodily fluids.

Supply closet. Repurposed. His brain has stopped thinking in sentences.

He breathes in again. Impaired judgment, confusion, detachment. His brain rattles on. His body wants to split out of his skin.

He stops breathing. Ribs, diaphragm, intestines. He bears down, forces pressure into his head. Do not faint.

The world narrows down. Forehead. Floor. Damp. Cigarettes. Vomit.

Intellectually he knows he is now in shock. He also knows John is going to be killed in the span of the next fifteen to twenty minutes. Which Sherlock will spend here, locked up and listening, unless he manages to lose consciousness in between. Then they will bring him around and it will be his turn. These are the facts.

His eyes water. He grits his teeth and starts breathing again.

He turns over to half-sitting, feels his arm for the source of the pain. His fingers are going numb. His skin feels warm and slick. He can feel the blood running down to his wrist. One handed, he works the coat off his back, unbuttons one shirt cuff and slides the shirt off one arm and wraps it tight around the other. He doesn't know where the wound is, exactly, but the pressure should buy him the time he needs.

There is a crash and a shout from the other side of the door. John. God, _John_.

No shots. Sherlock counts the minutes in his head. It's been two and a half.

He pulls himself up, leans against the wall. His brain is not working right, but there is enough capacity left to form a plan of action.

He has a set of lock-picks in his pocket. The small ones can be concealed and, given sufficient force, can sever the carotid like any good scalpel. A whisper low enough to bring ear close to mouth, and it's done. Restraints? Need to show sufficient weakness to pre-empt the need for any. Option one. Casualties: three.

Option two: provoke the stacks of meat. Dredge up facts that will anger them, cause insubordination. Use distraction, retrieve phone. Speed-dial Mycroft. Get shot. Casualties: two. Potential casualties: seven.

Negotiate. But what to bargain? Money – weak motivator. Brother – marginally useful. Immunity – potential option. What do you offer someone who has accomplished everything, who lives to realise their passion, and has time for side hobbies that involve killing people? Where is the crack in the armour, what does she _need--_

The door reverberates – two gunshots, in quick succession.

Sherlock's train of thought derails. It's been three minutes, _only three minutes_ , that can't be enough--

A flare, through the crack under the door. Flash grenade? Three more shots. An aborted cry. _Not John_. Two more shots.

Silence.

In the darkness, Sherlock finds his heart beating so hard it hurts. His pulse is deafening.

There is a scraping sound at his eye level, and then the door swings open.

John stands in the blinding light, looking down, and then he is crouching, close, and his hand on Sherlock's face is like fire, like sun, like a benediction.

"Sherlock," John says. "Sherlock, are you all right?"

Sherlock is numb. He turns his cheek into John's palm. His brain is still stuck on option three.

John is shirtless. The skin of his bare shoulders is wet; it reflects the light. There are bodies on the floor behind John; Sherlock can see a foot in an expensive high-heeled shoe. The foot is twitching. There are shadows in combat gear, moving between the bodies. Sherlock shuts them all out.

"Sherlock," John is saying. His other hand has come up, and he is holding Sherlock's face. "God, Sherlock. Oh, God."

And then John leans in, forceful and bright, and his mouth crushes Sherlock's mouth, lips and teeth and tongue, and Sherlock thinks, _No, not like this, not after this, no--_

He tries to twist away, claws uselessly at John's arms, but John doesn't let go. The kiss is hard and hot and relentless, and there is nothing Sherlock can do about it, nothing he can do to make it right, to make it the way he wanted it to be, and it is hopeless now, it's too late, he can't change it, he can't undo what he did, because John's hands are holding him tight, John's mouth is crushing his mouth and their first kiss will forever taste like blood.


	9. Chapter 9

"You didn't tell me," he says to Mycroft, after the long ambulance ride, the debridement, the hours of diagnostic tests. He is strapped to the hospital bed, tubes pumping saline into his veins, and his voice is hoarse, barely there. "I fail to see the purpose of the charade." 

Mycroft closes his book, keeps one finger between pages. The drive and the tests have taken most of the night; outside, dawn is beginning to colour the sky purple. 

"Hmmm, yes, I can see that."

Mycroft is expecting him to figure everything out on his own. In this state. Sherlock scoffs.

The bullet went clean through his arm; no major blood vessels hit, no bone fracture. The shock of being hit at close range was deceptive. The blood loss exacerbated the underlying exhaustion, combined to stretch it to the brink of life-threatening. Given that Sherlock did not enter into this at his best to begin with, he cannot fathom why Mycroft is, even now, withholding the truth. Sherlock's thoughts are still in disarray, oscillating, like a system with too many degrees of freedom, between the carnage in the warehouse, Mycroft's black, shiny shoes, Sherlock's own inability to cope, the blood on the concrete, and John.

John, who is now sleeping in the chair on the other side of the bed. His neck is craned, and the surgical tape on his shoulder is visible under the collar of his jumper. He is snoring softly.

Sherlock blinks. Glances at Mycroft. The book remains closed, and Mycroft is looking at John. The expression in his eyes reminds Sherlock of something. He's seen it in his brother a long time ago. A memory surfaces. A Glock 22, a girl who talked with her hands--

The thoughts roll down like dominoes.

"Ah," Sherlock says, even before his brain has fully caught up.

Mycroft looks at him then, smiles. "Yes. Ah." He goes back to his book.

Sherlock closes his eyes. His brain offers up a timeline.

Mycroft taking John's gun. Mary slipping into a coma. Sophie Moran dying in the warehouse in Eastleigh. _Yes, Sherlock, you are done_. John, the clinic, John, _John, at last_. Damn Mycroft for getting him into this too early.

Too early? No. Mycroft does everything for a reason. 

God, so stupid. So _stupid_. John's hands, John's mouth. _I'm trying, but this is too much_. The guilt, the hunger, the disturbed pattern of grief. An aberration, returned from the dead, but returned, none the less.

Sherlock swallows. His throat is dry. "Sentiment, Mycroft?"

Mycroft hums. "Merely anticipating the inevitable, little brother. Although I did expect you to catch on a bit earlier."

Forward, forward. The air gun in Sophie's hands, the memory of the knife. John's presence a balm on his thoughts. Sherlock's brain trying to catch up to something missing. Mycroft's credit card, obviously not forgotten. A trace, a few moments too late, but he can't deny Mycroft the usual efficiency in body disposal.

Sherlock frowns. "No surveillance?"

Mycroft huffs. "I had to draw the line somewhere."

Ah, hence too late, and hence the bedside vigil. The morality of his brother or the need to even the score? Sherlock opens his eyes, clears his throat. He needs water. He isn't going to ask. 

"And what about her?"

The book is gingerly closed. "She _is_ the last, Sherlock. I made sure of it."

"Did you." No trace of deception on Mycroft's face. Poker face, schooled in countless negotiations. "But you did know she would be there."

Ah, there, a barely perceptive shift, but enough to be obvious; enough to concede. "I suspected. I did not... anticipate the turn of events."

"Hm."

The kiss, the slickness of skin on John's shoulder. The blood there, red and fresh when John had moved back into the light. The shape: a crimson butterfly stretching its wings around the scar of the exit wound. Unfinished, and Sherlock could see where the scalpel was stopped, when the bullet hit the artist who held it.

"Two birds with one stone," says Sherlock, thinking about John's mouth. "How efficient of you."

Mycroft doesn't say anything to that. He goes back to his book. Sherlock leans back into the pillows and closes his eyes. Machines at his bedside thrum, low and steady. The IV drips.

Mycroft reads for half an hour, and when the sky gets increasingly blue at the edges, he gathers his book, his coat, and his umbrella, and leaves the room. Sherlock waits for John to wake up, but he falls asleep instead.

The next day, John isn't there. On the bedside table, there is a box of Belgian chocolates, a neat stack of black clothes, and a pair of oxfords from Yves Saint Laurent.

*

They let him go after three days.

Well, they don't exactly _let_ him.

John has texted, insignificant drivel about weather and generic questions about Sherlock's health. Wrote something about the clinic, too, and that Mrs Hudson said hi. Sherlock replied – his phone had miraculously survived the night in Gravesend undamaged – and then deleted the whole conversation. They were talking, but they weren't _communicating_. This wasn't nearly enough.

In the past seventy two hours, Sherlock has dissected the kiss from every possible angle. Replayed it in his head, imagined what it looked like from multiple viewpoints:

Behind John, six two above the floor, where Mycroft entered the room, looked around; the light hitting the expanse of John's bloodied back; Mycroft twisting his lips. 

From the floor by the tables, where Klaudia von Herder lay bleeding, a straight line of sight to the open door of the supply room; but she wouldn't look there, would she? No, she would look past her feet, to where a clean headshot cut down her young lover. Her last look, her last thought would be there.

And with this, he always comes back to the only possible angle. John, five seven, in the open door. Alive.

Time, Sherlock thinks, is deceptive. Take the cottage in Sussex. He is certain it exists, somewhere in the countryside, and that it may or may not have the beehives. Their lack is certainly easily fixed. The lack of time to do so, however, is not.

Eighteen months, four continents, and he'd been running on the certainty of a future, on an assumption of _later_. How... illogical, all things considered.

Day three, he threatens the nurses with bodily injury, disconnects himself from the IV drip, changes into the new clothes and checks himself out. They should know better than to stop him, and they evidently do. He survives the cab ride to Baker Street and tumbles through the door and up the stairs unhindered--

\--and stops dead on the landing between the floors.

There are boxes in the middle of the sitting room, where the rug still isn't. Cardboard boxes, some opened, some still taped shut. A blue denim jacket hangs over the back of the chair.

Sherlock has trouble breathing. He reaches out for the railing to steady himself.

Footsteps on the stairs, from above. Slowing down, now. Stopping. Sherlock looks up.

John is wearing the cream-coloured jumper. Jeans. Bare feet. He is holding a cardboard box, folded flat.

"Sherlock." He smiles, then frowns, in one smooth transition, and Sherlock loves him. _Sherlock loves him._

"Did you escape?" says John, still frowning. He comes down the last few steps, and stands on the landing between the sitting room and the kitchen. He is still holding the cardboard box. His frown turns serious at Sherlock's silence. "Sherlock, are you all right?"

Sherlock swallows. The railing is holding him up. He pushes off, and climbs up the rest of the way. He takes the cardboard box out of John's hand, and throws it aside, and then he takes John's face in his hands and kisses him, kisses him until he is dizzy with it, until he can't hold himself up anymore.

*

The blade scrapes slowly up his throat and to the ridge of his chin. It is then taken away, rinsed off, and scrapes again, the line slightly overlapping. Behind him, in the mirror, John looks solemn and dark. The bruise on the right side of John's face wraps his eye in dark purple.

Sherlock opens his mouth.

"Shut up," says John. "Or do you _want_ me to nick you? It's hard enough doing this backwards as it is."

Sherlock lets his mouth twitch in a smile.

It had been his idea. They kissed and kissed and kissed, walking backwards from the landing and into the kitchen, where John's back hit the table and Sherlock suddenly felt _hungry_ , famished like he hadn't eaten in _years_. He let go of John's mouth and put his lips to John's throat, felt the blood pulsing there, under the skin, hot and alive, and John laughed, his throat vibrating, and said, "God, your stubble's like needles."

Sherlock pulled back, fractionally – the skin of John's throat was so tender – and then he pressed his cheek against John's cheek so he wouldn't have to look into John's eyes and said, "Then shave me."

John gave a start, and a sort of laugh that Sherlock associated with disbelief; like the first time John heard Sherlock had done drugs and it was unfathomable. 

"What?" John said.

"My face, John," said Sherlock. "I've a blade in my bathroom. Come on."

It took some arranging, but eventually Sherlock had centred himself on a stool brought in from the kitchen, with John behind him, holding the cream and the blade. Sherlock had shed his coat and suit jacket in the hallway, which left him in designer shirt and trousers to John's workman's shirt and jeans, and Sherlock loved the contrast of the two of them already; he could not help extrapolating the differences to everything else they would do tonight.

John had protested the positioning at first, said the inverse image would be confusing, complained about the light – but then Sherlock said, "Nonsense. You do it in the mirror all the time. It's exactly the same," so John complained about the blade itself, and "Who even owns a blade in this day and age, Sherlock," so Sherlock huffed, and shifted, leaned back against John's chest, and rolled his hips just so, legs falling open to brace on either side of the sink, and John's eyes went down, hook, line and sinker, to where Sherlock was now splayed in front of the mirror, shoulders soft, neck bared, and dressed for a graveyard.

"Go ahead," said Sherlock, eyes fixed on the mirror. "I won't move."

John exhaled, slowly. Squared his shoulders. Good, reliable John. 

And then he made sure Sherlock didn't move. And that he didn't talk, either.

"Shhh," says John, now, so, so careful, as he inches the blade over Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock exhales, slowly, using the small of his back rather than his chest. The excitement of this is intriguing, the otherwise boring activity transformed by the presence of John and the application of his skill. Until fifteen minutes ago Sherlock didn't even know that he wanted this. John and sharp implements go very well together.

"So," John says, because John doesn't shut up. "You plan on doing this a lot, then?" He rinses the blade, and before he puts it back to Sherlock's skin, Sherlock clears his throat.

"Doing what?"

"Kissing me." John sets the blade against his cheek again. Sherlock presses his mouth tight.

"Tell me," says John. He scrapes down. The sound sends tiny tingles along Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock waits until the blade moves away. "I can't."

"Can't?" John raises his eyebrows.

"You'll nick me," says Sherlock.

John smiles. "Hmm." He scrapes down, double-checks the side. He's done with that part now. "You would like that."

Sherlock closes his eyes.

He's been hard since they started. Like iron, like _granite_ , and he had no idea it could feel this way. There is definitely something to say about erections being a requirement _beforehand_. Sherlock is glad to have crossed this off his list of adjustments.

But he hadn't intended this... this _foreplay_ with knives. He merely suggested a practical activity to facilitate the next step – kissing. Sherlock has just discovered kissing, and he's judged it to be several orders of magnitude better than words. And, because one cannot use their mouth at the same time for talking, a more than adequate replacement.

But John, and a blade--

There is beauty in the way John uses his gun. There is grace in the way John uses his body for sex. But this, the way he holds the blade like it's an extension of his arm, or another limb over which he has perfect control, and not an alien, cold, deadly attachment, this – this is artistry.

Sherlock thinks about the butterfly on John's shoulder, under the thick white gauze that wraps the side of his neck. Sherlock thinks about the butterfly and considers – would he like John doing this to him, with a scalpel or a knife, would Sherlock enjoy the way he enjoyed the feel of floorboards under his knees, the feel of John's body taking away his air; would he like John having this kind of control over him? Yes, yes, he would, in a heartbeat. God, where does it come from, this need that spills over his heart; that makes his head spin and his breath shudder out of his chest? It's like pain, dull and hollow, where his diaphragm contracts to suck air into his lungs. There is precedent for this, people do this; Irene Adler moves in this sphere and makes a living, and it cannot just be catering to the whims of the pathetic, it cannot be, not when there is such desire, such need coming up from somewhere within, lizard brain, gut, frontal lobe, and Sherlock realises he needs to find out, to understand, God damn it, he needs to _research_ \--

"Sherlock."

He blinks. John has stopped touching him. Sherlock's face is now hairless and spotted with bits of shaving cream.

"You've drifted off." John sets the blade on the sink, runs the water, puts his hand in it, and then brings his hand back to Sherlock's face, wipes the skin clean. "I hope that wasn't too boring."

John's smile is apologetic, and something goes hot and sharp in Sherlock's chest. God, how can John have him, all of him in front of his eyes like this and _still not see?_

He reaches up, takes hold of John's wrist, and then pulls it down and presses John's wet hand firmly against the front of his trousers. John startles, but his fingers are pliant under Sherlock's, and they curl where Sherlock holds them. Sherlock's answering smile is triumphant, and a little bit unhinged.

"Evidence, John," Sherlock says.

John stares at him for a moment, then laughs. There is an edge of panic in his voice, but his hand stays where it is.

"Really, Sherlock?" he says. His eyes crinkle. "This? This is what it takes?"

Sherlock feels his face burn, but he forces his hand to hold steady.

"And what if it is," he snarls. "What difference does this make, John? Does this offend your proletarian sensibilities that I would need something else, something more than just your average roll in the h--"

John grasps his jaw with his free hand, and takes his mouth. It's hard and wet and precise and brilliant, and then John's other hand _squeezes_ , too hard, and Sherlock groans into the tight space between their lips. The sound meets John's answering chuckle.

"God," says John, "God, no, you git. No difference. None. None at all." John kisses him a little more, and Sherlock's face burns, his lungs burn. It's exquisite. He lets himself float into the feeling.

John pulls away, cups Sherlock's face in his hand. The touch stings.

"You're amazing," says John. He swallows. "Make-- Make no mistake, Sherlock, we're going to have to talk about this. But not tonight, all right? Not now. Now I need you to be just like this. God."

He slides his hand into Sherlock's fringe, and up over his scalp. He scrapes his fingers, and Sherlock closes his eyes. John's other hand is still cupped at the front of Sherlock's trousers.

"God, you," says John. "You're so insane. You got shot, Sherlock. _Shot_. Like an idiot. Like a bloody idiot."

"Mm," says Sherlock. John's fingers are pulling so sharp and so sweet. The answering twinge in his arm is subdued; mild painkillers, not enough to cloud his judgment.

"God, I love you so much," says John, and his voice sounds like he's crying, but Sherlock knows he's not. The touch, the kiss, the voice, it's all consistent. Remarkable, how John can hold himself together like this, under any and all circumstances. Like nothing, _no one_ can shake him. Sherlock has been so blind, and so _stupid_ , to expect he can disturb anything, fuck anything up. Suicide? _Please_. As if. At his core, John is stronger than all people Sherlock knows _combined_. At his core John is _unshakeable._

John is kissing him again, and Sherlock surges up into it, hungry and rough and demanding, and John laughs into the kiss, but he doesn't give an inch; he lets himself be devoured but devours in turn. His hand on Sherlock relaxes, though, instead of tightening again – and this, this is _interesting_ , this is new, this is--

Sherlock puts his hand against the front of John's jeans, cups him through the denim. Sweat breaks across the back of his neck with the daring of it, but he doesn't stop. John makes a sound, low and gritty, but his mouth goes pliant against Sherlock's, and right then and there, Sherlock re-evaluates his whole plan for the evening.

He knows that he wants. And he knows what John wants, now.

He squeezes again, then pulls back a little to look at John's face.

John is flushed, his eyes are unfocused. Sweat beads in a thin sheen on his forehead. Yes. Yes indeed.

"Yes," John says, breathless, reading Sherlock's mind, for once. "God, Sherlock, yes."

Sherlock kisses him again, then unfolds from the stool, and walks them both back out of the bathroom, and through the corridor into Sherlock's bedroom. John's back slams against the door, slams it open. Sherlock walks him backwards towards the bed. They're still kissing.

"I want to see it," says Sherlock, and bites at John's mouth.

John's lips falter. "What?" He pulls back. Sherlock puts his hand on John's shoulder, where the fresh surgical tape wraps around the side of his neck. John has changed the dressing himself, hence the skew to the front; had been working with a mirror, in the bathroom upstairs.

"I want to see it, John. Please." His tone brooks no argument. He tugs at the collar of John's shirt.

John's eyes meet his, pale blue and serious. John licks his lips.

"If this is, ah," says John.

"Not an experiment," says Sherlock, with urgency. "I just need to see." He runs his fingers up the side of John's neck, cups his jaw, puts his thumb to John's lips in what he hopes is a caress. "She--Your body is different now. I--John, I can't stand not to see."

John moves his mouth against Sherlock's thumb, breathes out. "Okay."

Between the two of them, they divest John of the shirt and undershirt, and then Sherlock takes him by the shoulders and turns him round. He pushes him gently towards the bed, and John goes.

Sherlock watches the muscles of John's back move as John crawls on the bed and lies in the middle of it on his stomach. The white rectangle of gauze and tape is a stark contrast against his skin.

Sherlock forces to still the tremor in his hands, and reaches for his belt. The belt clinks, and on the bed, John makes a muffled sound and reaches under his own hips, to open the buttons on his jeans. The muscles in his back flex and shift.

"No," says Sherlock. He swallows. "Wait." John's hands stop. Sherlock pulls the belt out of the loops, throws it to the floor. "Let me."

John huffs, but he pulls his hands back out, then shifts around to find a comfortable position. He ends up with his right arm under his face, his left one spread out flat; his shoulder is still hurting – he hasn't taken anything; his eyes had been clear.

Sherlock toes off his shoes and bends down to take off his socks. He throws them aside and climbs onto the bed, shirt and trousers still on, and he stretches over John's body, chest to back. John makes a sound and flexes against him, and Sherlock lets the gravity pin his body to John's. He buries his face in John's hair.

They lie like this for a moment. John's breath is lifting his ribs, expanding and contracting slowly under Sherlock's weight.

John turns his head, and Sherlock's lips brush the top of his ear. John shivers. Sherlock reaches out and begins to peel the tape on John's left shoulder.

Halfway through it, John says, "Sherlock," strained, like it hurts, and Sherlock realises John is shaking.

"Shhh," says Sherlock. "I'll tape it back. Promise."

John huffs out a laugh, small and desperate. "Not the point."

"Yes. Yes, I know." Sherlock peels the tape. The design underneath is still raw and red, but the clarity of the lines is beginning to show.

Sherlock licks his lips. She did this in less than three minutes. The scalpel doesn't hurt that much; this was not designed for torture.

What do you give to somebody who has everything they need, everything they could possibly want?

"Beautiful," Sherlock whispers. The shell of John's ear is soft and pliant beneath his lips.

"Hurts like fuck," says John. "And looks like raw meat."

"No." Sherlock presses the tape back down, closes it gingerly around the wound. "It's beautiful. You will see."

"You're insane," says John. He laughs a little. "God, this is insane." Sherlock is about to tell him to stop repeating himself, because this is getting dull, but then John rolls his hips under Sherlock, presses right where Sherlock is still hard like a rock, and Sherlock groans against the back of John's head, and presses his hips down in return. It feels like pain, like a string stretched tight inside him. It feels too good.

John is still quivering. "Do I--" he says, tight. "Ah. Sherlock, do we need a safeword?"

Sherlock shudders. He twists to kiss the back of John's neck. He stops pressing down with his hips, runs his hand gently down John's arm, shoulder to wrist, over the delicate bones of his knuckles.

"Don't be ridiculous," he says into John's skin.

John laughs. He sounds breathless. "Fine. Fine." He stretches out under Sherlock again, body relaxing in stages. "Will you--um--will you take off your clothes?"

Sherlock considers. The muscles of John's thighs and the curve of his bottom feel comfortably solid. Lack of clothes at this juncture might take the sensation to the extreme, overwhelm him. He remembers the narrowing of perception when John was about to touch him, before. 

"No," he says, shifting against John's back. He puts his mouth to John's earlobe again, and John shudders. "Next time, perhaps."

This time he wants to control it.

John nods, shifts minutely under him. Sherlock runs his hand back up John's arm, and down his side, stops at his jeans. John has opened them, and Sherlock's fingers slide easy under the waistband. Sherlock curves his palm around John's hip, feels the bone under the skin; it's a solid and safe place to put his hand, a brief respite before what is next.

They stay like this for a while. Sherlock doesn't move his hand, lets the warmth of John's skin seep through his fingers. It's comforting.

John reads this as hesitation. "Really not a blushing virgin here, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiles. "I don't blush," he says, with reproach, and John gasps, even though he knew – he must have known, it was _obvious_ – and stiffens underneath him, with clear intent to change the pace--

Sherlock shifts, and pins John hard to the bed with his weight again.

"Shhh," he says. "I told you, John, I don't do things I don't want to." He slides a bold hand deeper underneath John's waistband, grips the left gluteus maximus. John exhales, sharp.

"I want to do this to you first," Sherlock says into John's ear, "so that I know exactly what you feel when you do it to me."

John makes a sound then, and Sherlock will have to start a new list, because he hasn't heard that one before. He props himself up on one elbow – the pain in his arm stretches along with the muscle – and he pulls John's jeans and pants down with his good hand. John doesn't help – his uninjured shoulder is pinned beneath Sherlock's weight – and what a picture they must make, Sherlock thinks, two men from different sides of the spectrum, both injured and broken in more ways than one. 

They fit together like pieces of the best imaginable puzzle.

John is saying something.

"Hm?" says Sherlock. He is concentrating on opening his own trousers, on the feel of warm, naked skin against erectile tissue.

"Nightstand," says John, into his own bicep.

Sherlock takes a breath and moves off him, opens the nightstand drawer. Then he laughs, because of course John would have foreseen this and prepared the field in advance.

A tube of lubricant gel, very practical (Sherlock experimented with various liquid lubricants some time ago; the bottle caps never hold, and you inevitably end up with a drawer full of very wet and sticky belongings), so Sherlock opens it and moves back to sit on John's thighs. He slicks his fingers, tests the viscosity by rubbing them together. The gel warms up. It's a pleasant feeling. He gets more.

"Sherlock." says John, from underneath him. "Are you getting distracted?"

Sherlock blinks. He was _not_. "Lie on your back, John."

John grunts. "Ah, not if you're sitting on me."

Sherlock blinks again. Oh, right. He rises to his knees, and John turns slowly under him. The flush on John's chest has spread all the way down to his groin. He is hard now, too. Sherlock throws the lube on the sheets, straightens his legs and lowers himself down, braced on his uninjured hand, and aligns their hips.

"Oh," says John, and Sherlock curves his spine and takes John's mouth, then wraps his hand around them both, and starts stroking. His healing muscle screams bloody murder, but he bites into John's lips, muffles his own cry and swallows John's, and tightens his fist.

He keeps at it for a while, until his mouth is rubbed raw from John's stubble and his arm is losing coordination. John is moving his hips, pushing up, and his hands have come up and fisted into the back of Sherlock's shirt. John could have easily pulled the shirt from Sherlock's trousers by now, scraped his fingers up Sherlock's back, but he didn't. There must be something in the contrast of clothing and skin that John appreciates, too.

Sherlock pulls away. John is looking up at him, mouth open, pupils blown wide.

"Are you close?" Sherlock says. He flexes his hand. Pain mixes with pleasure in an exquisite cocktail, but Sherlock's stomach has limits.

John laughs, sudden and free, and then blinks, like he's surprised himself with the volume.

Sherlock frowns. "What?"

"Nothing," says John. He grins. "Just. Your face." 

"What about my face?"

"Nothing. God, nothing. Forget I said anything." John pushes his hips up, and he slides against Sherlock, through Sherlock's loose fist. They both groan.

"Yes," says John. "I'm close. By all means. Please continue."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, that's enough of this." He lets them go, then rolls off John and reaches to the side. "Help me," he says, and pushes the lubricant into John's fingers.

John takes it, looks confused for a moment. Sherlock waves his hand at John's jeans, still wrapped around his ankles. "You'll do it better than I would. It's expedient."

John laughs, but he opens the tube and kicks off his clothes all the way down. Sherlock lies back and watches him slick his fingers, and arch his back. John closes his eyes when he does it, and Sherlock cranes his neck to see; John starts with two fingers, slow and sure, like everything he does, and must he really be so good at this? Sherlock touches the safe place on John's hip, and John goes over to his stomach, quick and easy. His fingers piston in and out, and it's obscene, enlightening, glorious.

"Tell me if it's too much," Sherlock says, in a rush. "God, John, you _need_ to tell me." He slides up to John again, fabric against skin, and it's good that he is not naked, that was foresight worth a fortune, because this is death, this slow movement of John's fingers, this is a stroke waiting to happen. Sherlock lines up, displacing the fingers, and John exhales at his touch, the breath sharp like lightning, that pained laugh of disbelief Sherlock loves and hates at the same time, so Sherlock twists, kicks the back of John's knee with his knee, spreading his legs further apart, glides over John's skin for a bit with poor aim, cursing his own tragic ineptness, but then John's fingers grip the back of his trousers, dig into muscle, hard, and Sherlock can't stop it, he tightens his hand, pushes where John's skin is soft and hot and slick, and miraculously, miraculously slides in.

And oh. Oh God. It's _impossible_. No film, no dream, no fantasy has prepared him for this. The pressure, that he expected, and the temperature, to some extent, but this, this is ridiculous, how is he supposed to survive this, how is he supposed to think, plan, move, when all sensation narrows down, electric and swift like charge down the wire, down to this one point of connection between him and-- between John, _inside_ John, and oh, oh God--

He is aware of John's fingers, digging in, and the muscles, the muscles _around_ him clenching, a vice most delightful, and he is aware of his hips, giving a weak push in response to the last shreds of sanity guiding his motions, and then he is coming, surprised and helpless, and too soon, not enough, not enough, oh God, John, this will never be enough--

He whines into John's hair with the disappointment of it, hard and bitter. The aftershocks race through him, shiver out through his skin. There is a tremble, deep inside John's body; Sherlock can feel it through John's back, in the strain of his shoulders.

He pushes one more time, holds, like he can recapture what has now faded into nothing, but he can already feel the rawness of it in his flesh, and the tiredness settling into his bones, the languid hormonal stupor that makes his limbs heavy and his thoughts sleepy-slow. Sherlock hates it. This is the opposite of coke, this surrender to the whims of the body, the forfeiting of the mind.

He pulls out, wrenches his sticky softness out of John, and rolls to the side. His right arm is on fire. Chemicals battle at the edges of the wound, try to keep the pain at bay so his body can fall into sleep.

"Oh God," says John, into the pillows. "Oh my God."

Sherlock swallows.

He hurts, and he is half-numb, but his body is still useful. He checked off one requirement; job well done, there is no time to waste.

He clears his throat. "Your turn, John."

There's a short moment of silence, and then John laughs.

"Yeah. Yeah, about that."

Sherlock frowns at him. He turns his head, blinks.

John's eyes are shining, crinkled around the edges. It's the honest smile, Sherlock realises, the one that lights up his face from chin to brow; there is no place left in his face for shadows.

Sherlock's brain can't quite finish processing.

John reaches out, touches his face.

"God, I love you like this," he says. His hand is warm and slick. Sherlock shudders.

"Like what?" Sherlock's voice has gone somewhere else, but John understands anyway.

"Like this. You. Being you."

John's fingers touch Sherlock's lips, then press and slide past them and into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock opens without question. John's fingers are salty and wet, and the jolt of it goes straight to Sherlock's groin, a line of fire to where he is spent and useless. He moans with the pain of it; God, John, what he is. _Impossible._

John slides his fingers in and out, moves Sherlock's jaw with it – steers him, _marks_ him – and John's lips are parted, a soundless _oh_ Sherlock desperately wants to make into sound; so he does – he bites down and John groans and flicks his fingers away and surges close and they're kissing, wet and salty and exhausted, nose to nose on the sweat-soaked bed sheets, and Sherlock thinks that if there ever was an addiction worth undertaking, this is it – the aftermath of bad sex, here, with John.

"God, I missed you," John says into his mouth. "You don't know how I missed you."

*

It's later. Sherlock doesn't know how much. Daylight seeping through the bedroom window has taken a tinge of orange; Mrs Hudson will soon interrupt them with afternoon tea. Sherlock smiles. 

The sweat has cooled underneath his shirt. He needs a shower, and a change of clothes. He longs for a cigarette. As good time as any to quit, while he's at it.

He moves his fingers through the soft hair at the top of John's scalp, and John shifts beside him.

"Hm?" John says. He has fallen asleep.

"Shhh," Sherlock says. "Nothing. Sleep. We have time."

But John has already drifted back to alertness. He chuckles, deep. His voice is hoarse. He sounds parched. They should get up, right themselves, get a drink.

Sherlock keeps threading his fingers through John's hair. He looks at the orange light on the ceiling.

John is looking at him. Sherlock can feel the weight of his gaze on his skin.

"One day, Sherlock," John says. He swallows. "One day you're going to get shot. Or stabbed. Or hit by a bus. And I'm going to have to bury you. Again."

Sherlock keeps looking at the ceiling. He doesn't stop moving his fingers. It takes effort.

There's a tightening around his solar plexus, sharp like a spear going in under his heart and going out through his back.

"I'm going to have to stand there, in the cemetery," says John. "And I'm going to be talking to your gravestone like an idiot. Again. Because that's where you're going to end up. Always. That's where you always end up, Sherlock--"

His voice trails off into nothing. The bed shakes, once, under the shudder in his chest, and then John is silent.

Sherlock blinks. His eyes are stinging. He feels a drop inch its way down his temple. It itches.

He clears his throat. He is parched, too.

"What if," he says, and stops. Funny, that. Words. The orange light on the ceiling. John, still, breathing quietly beside him.

"What if I," Sherlock says, and runs out again. Breathes in through his nose. "Do you enjoy the countryside, John?"

John is quiet for a while. Then he inhales, sharp. "What?"

"The countryside. You know. Cottages. Fields. Forests." He waves his hand, encompassing all of it, clear and sharp in his mind's eye.

"Minefields?" John says after a while. "Glowing mutant dogs?"

Sherlock's lips twitch. "Not so much with the glowing mutant dogs, no. Bees, though."

"Bees?"

"Yes."

John falls silent again. Sherlock has closed his eyes. He reconstructs the timeline. It's difficult. The pieces have been scattered around since the bullet went right through the centre.

The bed shifts.

"Is this a case, Sherlock? Because if there's glowing mutant bees, I swear--"

Sherlock shakes his head. This is going all wrong. "No. No case. You know, forget what I said. Never mind."

They lie still for a while. The timeline under Sherlock's eyelids reknits itself, slowly. So slowly. He is going to have to work on it, he is going to have to research again...

He has almost fallen back asleep when John's voice brings him out.

"Yeah. I think I would."

"Hm?"

John shifts closer. Sherlock's fingers have relaxed, but now they touch John's head again, like John is doing this on purpose, angling himself for Sherlock's touch.

"I'm a city bloke, myself," says John, "But I wouldn't say no to. You know. Retirement. Um, in the country. Or thereabouts. If that's what you mean. That is. You know. With bees." He trails off, embarrassed, and Sherlock can't help it. He smiles, easy and wide and free, because he can, God, he can.

"Good, John," he says, and threads his fingers through John's hair again. "That's good."

END


End file.
